


Grab Bag

by anexcessoffeels (headbuttingbears)



Series: The Grab Bag [1]
Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Alternate Universe - Mob, Anal Sex, Chair Sex, Cunnilingus, Daddy Kink, Depression, F/M, Fainting, Family Dinners, Fingerfucking, Fluff, Frottage, Gen, Hand Jobs, Hostage Situations, Hotel Sex, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Office Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Quickies, Sexual Coercion, Sick Character, Stalking, Surprise Kissing, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 18:42:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2863037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headbuttingbears/pseuds/anexcessoffeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A modest collection of <span class="u">unfinished</span> Barba-centric fic. Topics range from "what if Barba was held hostage?" to "what if the squad were American exchange students at Hogwarts as teens??" to "what if he had to huddle with someone for warmth???" to "what if I just gave up on plots and started writing porn all the time????"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gen, the one with the hostage situation

**Author's Note:**

> I will never finish any of these because I have a poor work ethic. Expect sudden starts and stops throughout, and various quality levels.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gen. Warning: character has a panic attack.

"No. No, I don't know... Can you hold the fort? Yeah, I don't know how much longer, it's almost two now but- Yeah."

Benson was on her cell, perched on the couch. His couch.

They were in his office. He was sitting at his desk, hands resting on the arms of his chair. He'd been- He couldn't remember. Almost two? Barba checked his watch. 1:54pm. He was due in court at three. Evidentiary hearing for the Hoyer case. The file was- He started thumbing through the stack of folders on his desk.

"Yeah. Yeah. Look, I gotta go- Yeah. Thanks, Finn."

Maybe on the conference table? There was too much shit in this room, he'd let it get away from him again. Had to stay on top of it or the loose files grew like mold on warm milk.

Heels clicked on tile, coming closer. "Barba?"

Not on the desk, probably not on the table either. He bent to grab a box from the floor, hauling it up to set it in an empty chair so he could look through it. He hadn't lost a file in years, there was no way he had now-

A slim hand touched his arm and he jerked away, heart leaping in his chest. "What?!"

"What are you doing?" Benson asked, voice soft.

"What the fuck does it look like I'm doing?" he said, glancing around the rest of the room. Just Benson, no one else, but it seemed to him that her patient expression held more than a touch of patronization. He went back to checking the box. "Stop hovering and help me look. Hoyer, h-o-y-e-r, it's around here somewhere, I had it this morning-" He stopped, snapped his fingers. "I had it this morning. It's in my briefcase." He scanned the room, fingers twitching like he was seconds away from laying hands on it. "Which is... Not here."

Benson stepped around him, trying to look him in the eye. "It's back at the courthouse, remember?"

"Well, that's as annoying as it is convenient," he grumbled, checking his watch again. Plenty of time to get over there and grab it. Not that he really needed a refresher reading, but it was habit, hard to break habit.

"It's not going anywhere. You can probably pick it up tomorrow," Benson said.

He shook his head, starting for the door. "I have a hearing at three, I'll get it-"

She stepped in front of him again, blocking his way. "No, you don't. The place is still on lockdown and will be for the rest of the day." When all he did was blink owlishly at her, her frown deepened. "Rafael, your briefcase is in the middle of a crime scene," she said.

"Oh." He mulled this over. "I see."

"Yeah." Benson nodded slowly. Why was she doing everything slowly? Did she think _he_ was slow all of a sudden? "Do you remember what happened?"

"Of course I remember," he snapped.

"Can you tell me?"

Prying, and not as delicately as she thought, but there was something about the way she spoke that bothered him. He narrowed his eyes, considering her calm face. Cop tricks; a trap? He could always smell a trap.

"Why should I? You already know," he said, watching her face. Nothing, not so much as a blink. "Because you were there." Fishing, and this time he got a bite: a tightening around her mouth. He felt the thrill of satisfaction, same as he always did when he followed his instincts and was proven right. God, he _loved_ being right.

"You were there," he repeated. "You were standing about…" Barba started backing up, away from the door. Away from her. He didn't notice the slight tremor in his hands when he pointed at her. "There. And I was- You were there, and I was here, and-" His hands had come up before him, almost defensively; Benson stayed where she was. "And-" The back of a chair caught him in the side and he startled, but he didn't turn around this time. He knew what he'd see if he turned around.

 

_"...And as to the last count on the indictment, murder in the first degree, how do you find?"_

_A pause. He could hear Marie Donatto, sitting behind him, taking the kind of deep shuddering breaths a person takes when they're trying not to cry. The jury foreman was looking at the defendant. Never a good sign for the plaintiff._

_"We find the defendant, James Donatto, not guilty."_

_He winced. Five charges and the only guilty verdict was for second-degree trespass, a misdemeanor. Shock travelled through the courtroom; there were a couple of cheers on the defense's side, quickly quieted when the judge called for order. Marie was crying now, her brother muttering angrily, gaining volume._

_"The court thanks you for your service," Judge Maskin said, inclining her head to the jury. "Pending sentencing at a later date, Mr. Donatto is released on his own recognizance-"_

_The room erupted, cheers and clapping on one side, grumbling and sobs on the other. The judge banged her gavel, calling for order._

_"How can you_ do _this?!" Kevin Donatto shouted, startling Barba. "You're just letting him go?!"_

_He turned to face the Donatto twins, glancing briefly at their scumfuck of a father - James looked thrilled, of course, slapping his lawyer's back, shaking hands with supporters standing behind him in the gallery._

_"You can't do this!" Kevin said, face red with anger, leaning forward over the bar, pointing angrily at Judge Maskin. "You can't let him go!" Marie remained seated beside him, shoulders shaking as she sobbed into her hands._

_Barba put his hand on Kevin's shoulder, trying to get his attention, calm him down. He could see Benson and Rollins approaching from the back of the room, weaving their way through the milling crowd. "Look, there's still sentencing, he's not getting off scot-free-"_

_"So he'll get what? A_ fine _? This is_ bullshit _! He fucking_ did it _!" Kevin shouted, banging a hand on the bar before he stomped around it, charging towards his father. Barba moved to intercept him._

_"Kevin, you have to stop-"_

_"Bailiff, remove this man-"_

_"He_ killed her _-"_

_"Sir, please-"_

_It was a wall of noise - the machine gun-like banging of the judge's gavel, the racket of the agitated crowd, the incoherent yelling of an incensed teenager. The bailiff and another security guard jostled in around Barba, pushing him out of the way as they struggled with Kevin. Then, smashing through the clamor like a wrecking ball, a laugh - loud, proud, and masculine._

_James Donatto, smiling with all of his teeth. Laughing at his dead wife's son._

_There was a howl from Kevin, and the staggering guard shoved Barba back. A muffled_ blamblam _punched through the room._

 _A short distance away, James Donatto slumped into his chair, smile fading into dull surprise. Someone - a woman – screamed, shrill and closely followed by a third_ blam _._

_The security guard who had fallen into Barba collapsed with a moan. There were more screams, shouts. The rush of noise, panicky this time, renewed as people in the courtroom scattered every which way._

_"Get away from me!" Kevin yelled, swinging the gun towards the bailiff and scrambling away, almost tripping over the guard lying on the floor between the tables._

A gun? Where _\- Before Barba could even finish the thought, he was grabbed by the lapel and pulled off balance. He gasped, flinching when hot metal pressed against the side of his throat. Kevin scrabbled around behind him, hand clutching at the collar of his suit jacket to hold him close. The boy was shaking – hell,_ he _was starting to shake – but the gun was steady enough. The bailiff backed away from them cautiously, palms up and empty._

 _"Kevin,_ no _," Marie said, pleading from where she stood in the gallery, hands clasped tightly together._

_"Shut up, Marie," Kevin spit out, breath warm and alarming against Barba's ear. He walked them slowly backwards through the well of the courtroom, towards the judge's bench. Barba had to keep his arms raised for balance, hands trembling uncontrollably before him as he tried not to trip over his own feet or Kevin's._

_The room was still half full: civilians crouching on the floor, cops approaching with drawn weapons._ Where did they all come from _? He wondered._ Surely there hadn't been that many cops in the room five minutes ago. _The fist clutching his jacket twisted, tried to shift him more to the left, and succeeded only in jerking hard on his shirt collar, making him lurch back into Kevin's slight frame. He heard the knock of an elbow against wood before the gun jabbed into his throat, making him gulp; they'd run out of room. There was nowhere left for them to go._

_Kevin's hand was an indistinct shape in the corner of his vision, the gun itself an invisible but inescapable pressure. Barba could feel his pulse throbbing against the burning muzzle as he stared across the room at James Donatto asprawl in his chair, the front of his dress shirt soaked with blood._

_"Kevin, listen to me," Barba rasped. His mouth was so dry; he licked his lips, trying to think. For fuck's sake, he was a professional talker, surely he could come up with something now. "You don't want to do this," he said._

_"He deserved it," Kevin whispered harshly into his ear._

_"Hey, I'm not disagreeing," he said quickly. "I'm on your side, you know I am. But this- You're not stupid, I know you're not, this isn't-"_

_"He_ deserved _it-"_

_"Listen to him," Benson called, sounding disturbingly calm. "This isn't you, Kevin. What you're doing? This isn't who you are." She was no more than ten feet away, standing in the center aisle of the gallery, expression intent. But it wasn't her face or voice that held Barba's attention, it was the gun she was pointing at him. At Kevin, really, but by default that meant at him._

Me, the human shield _, Barba thought. He looked frantically around the room at the semi-circle of cops and guards inching towards them, noting every grim face and drawn weapon._ Fuck. _He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to get his breathing under control, trying not to imagine all the high velocity impact spatter in his future._

_"C'mon, this isn't going to work," he said weakly._

_"Shut_ up _-"_

_"Kevin, put the gun down," he heard Benson say again. He couldn't not watch; he focussed on her, watched as she angled her gun minutely to the right._

Her left, my right _. He tried to subtly lean out of the way but Kevin yanked him back front and center, knocking the gun sharply against his jaw and making him gasp._

 _"He deserved it!" Kevin yelled to Benson. "You said he wouldn't get away with it but you_ lied _, you all_ lied _, and_ I _had to take care of it!" Clutching at Barba, Kevin readjusted his grip on the gun, dragging it up to dig the muzzle into a point below Barba's ear._

How can Olivia look so calm? This is fucking ridiculous _. Barba's hands wouldn't stop shaking; he squeezed them shut convulsively, fighting the almost overwhelming urge to shove the gun away. He was seriously regretting that fifth cup of coffee._

 _"Kevin, Kevin, listen to me," Benson said, voice almost a singsong. "Look at Marie, Kevin. Look at your sister. What about her? Who will take care of_ her _? Help_ her _now, Kevin. Put down the gun."_

 _Barba couldn't help but look, and if he couldn't resist then surely neither could Kevin. There stood Marie, the only civilian still on her feet in the gallery, her face tear-streaked, mouthing something. It looked like_ please _._

_There was movement to his right, beyond the blur of Kevin's hand: Ben Cohen, Donatto's million dollar-retainer lawyer, was cowering on the floor under the defense's table, hands over his head just like Bert The Turtle taught him. Barba bit his lip against the hysterical giggle that threatened to bubble out._

_But Cohen hadn't been the one moving around – that was Rollins. She'd come up the side of the gallery and over the bar without drawing attention to herself, and now bent close to James Donatto, two fingers on his throat as she checked for a pulse, another uniformed cop covering her._

_"Get away from him!" Kevin shouted at her, voice cracking, making an abortive move towards the table._

_"He's still alive," Barba murmured to him, seeing how Rollins didn't back away from Donatto. "You're not him, Kevin. You're not a murderer, you can still fix this-"_

_Kevin leaned past him, waving the gun at Rollins as he hollered, "No,_ get away from him _-"_

Blam. Blamblamblam.

_Marie was screaming._

_Barba swayed, feeling something wet on the back of his neck. He brought one shaky hand up to wipe his skin with his fingers, staring at the red on his hand. He rubbed his thumb and fingers together, smearing it. It_ was _blood after all, warm and tacky and- His? Whose was it? It was all over him. Would it come out in the wash?_

_He looked up in time to see Benson, weapon holstered, rush towards him. Confused, he watched as she started patting him briskly all over._

_"You're fine," she said when she was done, patting him finally on the cheek. "Are you listening to me? You're fine. You're not hurt. It's not your blood."_

_"I know it's not my blood," Barba replied with a frown, turning to look behind himself._

_"No, no, don't-" She reached for his arm too late. What was left of Kevin Donatto was lying propped up against the judge's bench, and the sight sent Barba reeling back towards Benson._

_"Jesus Christ," he said flatly, swallowing hard against a sudden wave of dizziness._

 

"Jesus Christ," he said again, heart racing. He couldn't- A _gun_ \- He had the same shirt James Donatto had been wearing, he realized. It was hanging up in his closet at home and now he knew what it looked like covered in blood.

"You're okay, Rafael. It's over, you're fine."

Olivia's hand gripped his shoulder just like before, when she'd held him up in the courtroom. This time he shied away, lurching to the far side of the table, trying to steady himself with a hand on a chair back. He could still hear Marie Donatto screaming.

He could smell the blood, a cloud of warm iron mist floating around him, on him.

 _On him_. Kevin's blood- He shucked his jacket, let it fall to the floor with a clunk before he started to pull violently at his tie. There was blood on him, he'd been walking around with Kevin Donatto's _blood_ on him, and it just as easily could've been _his_ blood, _he_ could've been the one dead on the floor. It was on his suit jacket, he could see it, a spray of tiny crimson droplets scattered across the back and larger blotches over the shoulder and the collar. He'd been walking around like this, people had _seen him_ -

"You're safe now, do you hear me? Rafael-" Benson stopped, turning to face away as he ignored her and dropped his tie on the pile of his jacket before hooking his thumbs in his suspenders, jerking them off his shoulders so he could start on his shirt.

He was struggling with the buttons when he saw it: a thin line of brown under one fingernail. _Dry blood_.

He scrambled out of his shirt, losing a button in the process: it soared out into the room and hit the floor with a distant click.

He hadn't thrown the shirt away fast enough, and the sight of the thick stripe of red splashed across the collar burned in his mind. Kevin Donatto had been about an inch or two taller; one of the bullets must have caught him in the neck to produce that kind of spray.

There had been blood on his skin; was it still there? He rubbed at his neck, feeling a sharp flare of pain but his hand came away clean. He couldn't remember cleaning the blood off. It had to still be there. He rubbed again and again, a low, distressed sound escaping him. Benson's head turned slightly, but she didn't say anything.

But there was nothing. Not even a hint of red on his fingers. The skin of his throat stung, raw from scratching; the pain shocked him. It was new. Different.

"Fuck," he whispered, crossing his arms tightly, huddling in on himself.

Across the room, facing the door, Benson bowed her head as well, unknowingly mirroring him. He'd forgotten she was there at all; he flushed hot with shame. He could easily imagine what she'd see if she turned around: him standing next to the table, shivering in his t-shirt and pants, suspenders hanging limp and twisted. Neck red, hair a mess, faint layer of flop sweat, eyes undoubtedly crazy. So much for his persona as the consummate professional.

"Can you make yourself useful and grab my spare shirt?" he blurted out, talking fast in hopes his voice wouldn't crack and make things even more embarrassing. "It's in the bottom drawer of my- Yes," he finished awkwardly as Benson walked over to his desk and pulled open a drawer. He'd learnt early on in his career that every office needed two things: a change of clothes and a couch, and he made sure to have the best of both.

She pulled out the wrapped package and walked it over to him. He'd been half hoping she'd just toss it at him but that would've been out of character; at least she stayed on the other side of the conference table when she passed it to him, giving Barba space. If anyone knew about giving people space, it was Olivia Benson.

"Thanks," he said, ignoring her to focus on pulling the shirt out of its wrapping. There were some unsightly crease marks that normally would've made him twitch to see but it was _clean_ , boring and plain white but _clean_ , and he almost sighed in relief as he pulled it on.

"Better?"

He glanced at Benson briefly before turning his attention back to untwisting one of the straps of his suspenders. "Yes." He was hesitant to face her, even though – or perhaps because – he knew exactly how the conversation would progress. She'd be open, sympathetic, concerned but not overwhelmingly so; she had practice dealing with- This. People. Like hi- People in difficult situations.

Barba smoothed his suspenders over his shoulders. He was stalling, they both knew it, and he was not normally an avoidant person.

 _This is fucking ridiculous_ , he thought again, probably not for the last time that day. He planted his feet. "Look, I-" Faltered when he looked Olivia in the eye.

Open. Sympathetic. Concerned but not overwhelmingly so. He really didn't know _what_ he'd expected. Feared.

He cleared his throat, focussed on her nose. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't… Tell anyone. About- This." God, what was he doing.

"Won't leave this room," she assured him.

He nodded, fidgeting with his sleeve. "Thank you." His cufflinks were- somewhere. Missing in action. Likely in the pile of clothing at his feet that he desperately wanted to ignore. The desire to kick it all under the table and deal with it later – never – was intense.

"Rafael…" She was smiling faintly at him. It was so strange to hear her use his first name, and so many times in one day, but they _were_ colleagues. Friends? Colleagues. It shouldn't have been that strange. "If you ever need to talk-"

He waved a dismissive hand, bending to riffle through his jacket for his cellphone. "And further ruin your opinion of me? Yeah, thanks but no thanks, I'd rather talk to IAB."


	2. Gen, the one where they all go to Hogwarts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aren't HP AUs basically a requirement for every fandom? I had a lot of this worked out and... Never wrote it. For the best, probably. First part is when Liv and Barba meet, second part is a flying lesson. I think this was all actually inspired by one of Barba's ties. I plead temporary insanity. JKR math ACTIVATE!

That Tuesday afternoon was gorgeous, summer resisting to give up its grip on the school grounds, so of course Liv was spending her afternoon in the basement. Double Potions with Slytherin. What a thrill.

"C'mon, Liv, it's only the second day. It's not like Snape's opinion of you will drop any lower, you know how he feels about Gryffindors _and_  Americans," Stabler said, hunched over the table. They'd just finished lunch and still had ten minutes before third period. "Come out and playyy."

She laughed as she checked her bag to make sure she had everything she needed. No way was Snape catching her out for not having the right colored ink this year. "I'm not cutting class. It's the _second day_."

"I've got a new deck of Exploding Snap Cards," he said, ducking his head to look her in the eye. He groaned when he saw her obstinate expression. "Ugh, such a stick in the mud. Fine, tell me how it goes."

"You'll never be an Auror if you don't go to class," she called. He waved a hand at her but didn't turn back.

She sighed, picking up her bag. Double Potions. With _Slytherin_. Why her.

 

It was dark, it was dank, and it was time for seat shuffling, as she found out.

"In the spirit of promoting inter-house unity, and not at all for my own amusement, I will be assigning you all new partners," Snape said, chilly gaze quickly freezing the low level chatter that broke out around the room. "You will work together, you will be marked together. You will - what's the phrase? Sink or swim. Together. For the year." He smiled at them; Liv felt her lunch roll over.

Across the aisle, Amanda Rollins caught her eye. _What?!_  she mouthed at Liv.

Liv shrugged, already resigned to her fate. She surveyed the room, listening with half an ear as Snape started reading off pairs, wondering who she'd be paired up with. It was like Stabler had said, and she couldn't decide if cutting would have been a good idea - she would've missed out on this agony, but at the same time her fate probably would've been worse than death if she'd cut on Snape. Stabler was right: she was a Gryffindor, she was an American. But there was a third strike against her: she was on the Quidditch team.

She wondered if Snape kept a troll in the back to pair her with. It wouldn't surprise her in the least.

"Barba, you're with Benson."

Her gaze snapped back to Snape, confused. _Who?_

"As she seems to have an empty spot at her table, feel free to join her. Now."

There was a shuffle of movement on the far side of the room, deep in Slytherin territory, and Benson watched apprehensively as a short dark-haired boy made his way towards her, bag in hand.

She looked to Rollins again, who had a similarly confused look on her face.

Then the boy was standing before her. He looked vaguely familiar, just like his name sounded vaguely familiar, but then _everyone_ looked _vaguely_  familiar: their year wasn't that big. Hell, the _school_  wasn't that big.

"Excuse me." He was tapping his foot, impatient.

She'd been staring, taking in the floppy dark hair and the big nose, trying to think where she'd seen him, not really taking in his haughty expression. The table was close to the wall; she was blocking the way to the next stool. "Oh, sorry. I'll just-" She shifted over, dragging her bag across the tabletop and leaving him the aisle stool.

"Thank you," he said after a moment of watching her, setting his own bag on the table and sitting.

"I'm-" She dropped her hand when she realized he was ignoring her in favour of watching Snape read out the rest of the pairings. "Okay," she said in an undertone, rubbing her neck awkwardly.

Maybe cutting _would've_ been better.

 

* * *

 

"You know, actually, I don't think this is a good idea. The wind is starting to pick up. Look at the lake, it's... Choppy."

Liv looked at the lake - smooth as a sheet of parchment. So smooth you'd never know there was a giant squid in there. She shifted her broom to her other hand, stuck her finger in her mouth, and popped it out, wet. Testing the wind speed the old fashioned way.

"That's disgusting," Barba said.

"And there's no wind. This was _your_  idea, remember?" She resumed her march towards the Quidditch pitch, forcing Barba into a trot to keep up with her, lugging the spare Gryffindor broom she'd borrowed.

"I'm reconsidering it. Maybe you could just... Do some drills and I could watch or time you or something. You _do_ do drills, don't you? Chaser practice things? I'm not an athlete, please just put me out of my misery already."

She laughed. "Yes, we have 'chaser practice things,' but this isn't sports. This is self-defense."

They'd almost reached the stadium and, once again, Barba stopped. "Explain."

She stomped on her urge to sigh, knowing he was just nervous. "What if you needed to make a quick getaway from somewhere?"

He shrugged, arms crossed. "Apparition."

"You're under age."

"Crime of necessity."

She narrowed her eyes. "You don't know how."

He smirked.

She left that for later discussion. "Fine, you're in a place you can't disapparate from."

"The only place that would be is the school and why would I want to get away from here? Besides the obvious reasons."

She waved her hands. "Merlin's left- I don't know. You...." She flailed about for something he wouldn't be able to talk his way out of, latching onto a scenario as she stared at him. He looked seriously unamused, like a smaller version of one of their professors. "You stepped on McGonagall's tail before your Transfiguration exam."

He cringed. "Okay, continue."

"So you can't apparate, running is pointless, you can't take the Floo, and the Knight Bus isn't allowed on school grounds. That pretty much just leaves stealing a broom and flying for your life."

"Fine. I concede the point."

"Again." She waved him forward, into the stadium. "Like I said, this was _your_  idea."

"Yeah, yeah, you don't need to keep reminding me," he grumbled as they walked out onto the pitch.

It really _was_  a beautiful day. The sky above was a clear blue, and it was warm enough she could take her light sweater off and feel the spring sun on her arms. The grass was already lush and springy under her feet; she wished they could be here in the summer, when the flags would flap in the afternoon breeze that would kick off the lake.

But for now the stadium was empty but for themselves, something Barba was probably happy about.

"Alright, let's get started. Show me your stance."

He looked at her, eyebrows up. "Uh...."

"Just get on the broom."

He did so carefully, then for a moment appeared to run through a mental checklist - checking that everything was where it was supposed to be - before he looked up at her. "Okay?"

She bit her cheek. "Okay. Now push off. Don't go too high."

He looked down at the broom, at his feet, at the ground, up at the sky, and then back at her. All very obviously. "You don't want to see this."

"You can't be that bad," she said.

"Yes, I can," he said, wiping one hand on his pants.

"There's no way. If you can get in the air at _all_  you can't be _that bad_ ," she reassured him.

He nodded. "Fine. Okay. Okay."

She nodded back at him.

"Okay. On three." He huffed out a breath. "One..."

 

 

Liv carefully tapped the back of Barba's head with her wand. " _Episkey_." She smoothed his hair back, watching the cut seal up with a soft glow. "There."

"This is why I don't fly," he grumbled as she gave him a hand up to his feet.

"I'm still not sure how you managed that," she said, looking around at the ground for the rock. "I don't even see a rock."

He rubbed carefully at his head. "It was the broom."

"What? How? It's- There's no sharp parts," she said. "It's a broom. It's a _Cleansweep_."

"I'm telling you, it was the broom. All brooms hate me," he said, glaring at it where it lay a few feet away. "Liv, give up. This was a bad idea, great on your part, but bad on mine, let's just." He kicked at a bit of crabgrass. "Go back and pretend this didn't happen."

"No."

"What?"

"No." She went and fetched his broom. "You don't take the easy way out. You never do, I'm not going to let you now."

He glared at her. "This isn't taking the easy way out! I fell on my head! A broom! To the head! I was bleeding!"

"So? Remember that time in Potions when you accidentally _ate_ the mandrake when you were only supposed to chew it a little? And Snape wouldn't give us anymore so you went to the bathroom and _puked it up_?"

He flapped a hand at her. "That was extraordinary circumstances."

"So is this. This is _important_. Don't quit now."

He glared out into the distance, but she knew she had him when he glanced back at her. "Don't make the face."

She tilted her head and batted her eyelashes at him. He could never resist her and they both knew it. "C'mon, Barba."

"No."

"C'monnnnnnn." She waggled the broom at him. "You can't let this stupid thing beat you. C'mon, I'll give you something really awesome if you try again."

He peered at her, uncrossing his arms. "What?"

She grinned. "Respect."

He sighed, rolling his eyes. "Ugh." But he also stuck out his hand.

She passed the broom to him. "Okay, this time try not bending your knees so much…"


	3. Gen, the one with the stalking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The stalker was originally going to get pretty aggro. Like at one point I planned on having her mug Barba at gunpoint in Central Park and then burglarize his place and roll around in his bed and steal some of his clothing for her shrine. Whole nine yards. She wanted to make him her bride. I don't know anything about stalking except what I vaguely remember from my homicide class in uni two years ago (yes I took a class called homicide, who is surprised).
> 
> Good thing I didn't stick with this, it sounds like something I might have enjoyed excessively. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Also the first appearance of Barba's secretary, whose name I have never found out. Does she have a name? I feel like she does and it isn't Tara. I'm sorry, secretary lady.

"...So Finn says, 'I won't tell anyone if you won't,'" Amaro laughed, pulling open the door to Barba's office.  
  
"They never learn," Benson replied, checking over her shoulder for their slowpoke of an ADA. He was down the hall, hung up with a bike courier. She waved a hand at him, impatient, and he waved back at her,  _go on without me._  
  
Amaro was already helping himself to some of Barba's coffee. "The guy coughed up everything - account books, bank statements, checks. Dude had it all in boxes under his bed. Real hoarder."  
  
"Why didn't he shred any of it?" Benson wondered as she sat down on the couch. "He had to know how bad this looked."  
  
"You ready for this?" Amaro tried not to smile as he stirred more sugar into his coffee. "He was saving it for ten years because that's what the IRS says you're supposed to do." Even his airquotes were mocking.  
  
Benson cringed. "No way."  
  
"Yeah way!"  
  
"What way?" Barba asked, tugging at his tie and frowning down at the brown envelope he must have gotten from the courier.  
  
"I was just telling Liv how we got those transaction numbers you said were so important," Amaro replied.  
  
"You got them then? Great," he said absently, setting his briefcase down on the desk and tearing open the envelope.  
  
"That and a lot more, apparently," Benson said.  
  
"Great," Barba said again as he shook out the contents of the envelope into his hand. From where Benson sat they looked like pictures. Hi-res judging by the size. Evidence?  
  
"Counselor?" Amaro shot Benson a curious glance. She shook her head, watching as the blood drained from Barba's face. "What is it?"  
  
No answer. He started flipping through the pictures, gaining speed at the same rate he grew pale.  
  
Seriously concerned now, Benson traded another look with Amaro as she rose from the couch and slowly approached Barba's desk. "What's going on? Talk to me, Barba. You're kind of freaking us out here."  
  
He kept flipping through the pictures until finally the inevitable happened and one slipped out of his hand, setting off a domino effect as they all seemed to make a jump for it, scattering across his desk and the floor. "Tara!" he shouted, startling both Amaro and Benson.  
  
His secretary poked her head in the door as he leaned forward to steady himself with a hand on his desk. "Yes?"  
  
"Can you bring me the box?"  
  
Her eyes went a little wide. "Y-yeah, sure thing." She was gone in a flash.  
  
As soon as she was gone he pressed a shaking hand to his mouth as Benson watched. There were pictures everywhere but that was of less interest to her than Barba's obvious distress. "What's 'the box'?"  
  
"And what's with the paparazzi photos? You got a fan?" Amaro had a handful scooped up from the floor, flipping through them as he walked over to the desk. "These… These are all from today," he said, eyebrows knitting as he examined them.  
  
Benson bent and picked up the ones nearest her, looking them over as Barba sat down heavily in his chair, continuously rubbing a hand over his forehead. The pictures were all of Barba - some from a distance so she had to play Where's Waldo, some disturbingly close. But all definitely of him. The timestamps were all from that day.  
  
She gestured to Amaro and he readily passed over his handful, and she looked through them as well. All Barba. Mostly in the same clothes he was in now, but there were a couple with earlier timestamps that looked like they'd been shot through a couple of windows. They showed him in a thin Harvard t-shirt and pajama bottoms, sitting at a table drinking coffee and reading the paper. Breakfast.  
  
She flipped back through them all, seeing the theme. He was drinking coffee in all of them, and they were all blank on the back except for the most recent. That one was from twenty minutes earlier, just before they'd met him outside the building. That was the same venti-sized espresso he'd finished and tossed in the garbage just before they got in the elevator. Scribbled on the back in black marker was a short message:  _You really ought to switch to decaf, all that caffeine is bad for your heart._  
  
Benson looked up at Barba as Tara came back in with a large document box. She set it on his desk, biting her lip and looking as nervous as Benson had ever seen her.  
  
"Thanks," Barba croaked. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Thank you. That'll be all."  
  
She nodded and ducked back out.  
  
"What's in the box, Counselor?" Amaro asked, hands on his hips.  
  
Barba sat up straight and rested a hand on the lid, eyes cold even as he smiled at them. The  _fuck you_  smile she'd seen him wear in court on very special occasions. "This is where I keep my death threats."


	4. Gen, the one where Barba is a workaholic who never gets laid and he drops his phone in a toilet by accident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Technially gen, but was originally meant to end up Barba/Rollins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very mundane (and rough) first effort at a fic I never managed to write; I think it has some things in common thematically with the following wip/chapter (which was the second attempt). It was also the start of my slide into Barba/Rollins insanity, which was a very short slide.

Two days. He got two days out of an entire week to have some kind of life outside of the job, and those forty-eight hours normally got eaten up pretty quickly. Not with anything exciting either – he slept most of that time. Saturday was the one day a week he gave himself permission to sleep in, an indulgence that went against every instinct he had but that he refused to give up.

So, sleeping. Groceries of course. Bills. Dry-cleaning drop-off – he was so predictable, such a loyal customer, that the old lady who manned the counter would hand him a cookie along with his claim tag. Oatmeal raisin that week. Not bad, could have used more raisins.

Two days to pretend he had anything even approximating a social life, and he was halfway through a late dinner with someone he hadn't seen in years when his phone started buzzing. He thought about ignoring it, but-

"No, go ahead, I don't mind," Luisa said, smiling across the table at him. And then she said the thing that always, _always_ killed him regardless of who it was coming from: "I know how busy you are."

Barba sighed and checked his phone.

 

Which is how he ended up walking into the precinct at almost ten o'clock at night, dressed down and deeply unhappy to be there. He couldn't be bothered pretending otherwise, and the characteristically surprised looks he was getting from the squad didn't help. He got it – jeans and a turtleneck, far from his usual suit and tie business. It was a lot like running into your grade school math teacher in the produce section, checking out the beets. It was unnatural for kids.

But these weren't kids, even if they acted like them from time to time.

"Sorry to interrupt your hot date, Counselor," Rollins said.

He stared at her long enough to make it awkward. "Why am I here?"

Cue cop spiel, and he was listening, honest he was, but he was also thinking about three other cases that sounded very similar, more similar by the minute, and he forgot to buy apples, he knew he'd left something off the list when he was at the market, and he hoped Luisa made her flight okay. It hadn't been a date at all, she'd just had a long lay-over in the city, going from Nebraska – " _Nebraska_ ," he'd laughed, "What's in _Nebraska_ for a UN election observer?" – back to Europe, and he'd taken her out for a bite to eat.

He was halfway through an apology text to her when he noticed the verbal torrent had dried up, and he looked at Rollins, who was very close to glaring at him. "What? I'm listening," he said, fingers still moving over the keys. What she had did sound a lot like those other cases, providing he ignored the total absence of real evidence to back up her suspicions. "Not that there's any _reason_ for me to be listening, you haven't said anything of prosecutorial value-"

For some reason his honesty seemed to annoy her further. "Look, if you don't think we have enough to move forward, just say so. I completely understand if you'd rather be off trying to salvage whatever's left of that date. God knows if anyone needs to get-" and he looked up in time to see the exact moment when Rollins's brain caught up with her mouth.

He set his phone down on the table and leaned forward. "If anyone needs to get _what_?"

Finn moved in, smooth as always, playing referee with, "It's late, let's pick this up Monday-"

"No, let her finish her thought," Barba said, pushing up his sleeves. "I want to hear what other astonishing leaps of logic Detective Rollins is capable of tonight."

"That's enough," Liv said, putting on her invisible sergeant hat and shutting the situation down before it could devolve further. "We'll let this guy cool his heels for another couple of hours before letting him go. He'll keep 'til next week. In the meantime, everyone go home." She gave him an apologetic look before pulling Rollins aside for a whispered conference that left the latter looking even more red-faced than she already was.

Barba shook his head and rose from his seat, pocketing his phone and grabbing his jacket. Luisa was probably on her way back to the airport – he couldn't believe he'd stuck her with the bill, fuck, he'd have to remember to make it up to her next time he saw her which would be God only knew when – and there were a stack of files he'd left at the office that needed signatures, maybe he could grab them on his way home, but then again it wasn't as if they were time-sensitive, and he was about to punch the button for the elevator when Rollins stepped in front of him.

"I want to apologize for earlier, it- _I_ was totally unprofessional," she said in a rush, avoiding his gaze. "And rude. Definitely rude."

He shoved his hands deep in his jacket pockets, wondering if he could be bothered to work up a mad. "Which part? The part where you drag us all down here on Saturday night to play a glorified game of Clue, or the part where you implied-"

"All of it?" she interrupted him, blushing as she rubbed the side of her neck.

He was too tired to even manage to be annoyed; this was supposed to be his day off. But he too clearly remembered the last time Rollins had called them all in on the weekend, and shouldn't he be grateful this wasn't a repeat of the whole William Lewis clusterfuck? It was just some public jerk-off instead of the start of something bigger. Even if it did ring a couple of warning bells.

"Your apology is noted." He leaned around her to tap the button to call the elevator.

She winced, stepping aside. "But not accepted, right?"

He kept his eyes on the floor indicator.

"Right. I deserve that. Sorry again for ruining your night." He glanced at her; she was nodding again, walking away towards the bullpen. "You look great, by the way," she called back.

He laughed once, humorlessly, and stepped into the empty elevator car. "I know."

 

The problem was he _did_ know. He knew exactly how good he looked, and, more than that, he knew she meant well. Rollins had good instincts, but like everyone else in her squad she was afflicted with the irresistible urge to jump in with both feet before checking the depth of the water, and no matter how much he kept at them about it nothing ever seemed to change. The whole damn unit was cursed, he was sure of it.

It didn't help matters in the least that their instincts, whether separate or combined, usually proved correct. Talk about reinforcing bad behavior. That's why less than a week later he was standing in the bullpen again, this time yelling at the lot of them: Rollins's Saturday night special had turned into a shitstorm after all. It was some bullshit involving a whole internet site's worth of hashtags, indecipherable jargon, and anonymous dares, all of it resulting in public assaults and traumatized dogs and Christ, it could never be anything simple and straightforward with these people, could it? If it was hitting his desk then it was always a pile of their crap, and he was always the one cleaning it up.

And it was thick on the ground this time. One complaint of police brutality (which had come as a surprise considering the usual offender was still on diesel therapy), a dozen wrongfully seized computers, and a shitton of inadmissable evidence. Five days he could have spent working on a dozen other cases that were instead lost to riding herd on Manhattan SVU's A-team.

"Do you people need a refresher course in how search and seizure works? Because I could arrange one for you," he said. "Make it a field trip to Hudson University and write it off as a business expense. I'll have my secretary type up some permission slips for your parents to sign."

Angry muttering rose from the squad. They sounded like a hive of pissed off bees. Good, now they knew how he felt.

"Hey!" Finn rose from where he'd been sitting on the conference table, crossing his arms defensively. "Remember who you're talking to, _Counselor_. We had probable-"

"Don't." Barba raised a finger. " _Do not_ finish that sentence. _Do not_ say you had probable cause." He rubbed his hands over his face. "[You have no probable cause. At all.] Do you people understand the magnitude of your fuck-up?"

" _Barba_." Liv moved in on him, hands up and tone half scolding, half placating. She never did like it when he swore, but there was a time and a place for everything and this was surely the fucking time. _Probable cause_. "Look, let's discuss this in my office. This is a workable situation."

"Don't manage me, Liv." He grabbed his briefcase and backed up, checking his watch. Three in the afternoon on a Friday; maybe if he left now he could get his hands on some sunlight-deprived junior ADAs and scare them into doing some of the dirty work he'd been stuck with. Two days out of seven and he knew how he'd be spending them this week. Fucking SVU. "Just…" He looked around at the squad again. Rollins, the one who had started the whole thing, had wisely kept her mouth shut, though her eyes looked fit to pop out of her head. "Try not to make it worse," he said, voice low.

He did his best to ignore the sighs of relief and the muttered comments he heard as he left. None of it was personal, after all. He didn't take it _personally_ when they managed yet again to destroy his time off. That was the job.

 

Monday morning found the situation moderately improved, though Barba's mood wasn't any better. One of the ADAs had mostly come through on the research – the cellphone texts were definitely out, but there was a chance the seized computers could stay in. A slim chance, but a chance. He'd spent the weekend plowing through paperwork, case law, and worrying. He hadn't slept well.

Between court sessions for two of the many other cases he was juggling, he stood in line for the third time at the coffee vendor's, feeling the chill that had crept into his bones during his morning run finally start to melt away in the 10AM sunshine. The day wasn't even half over and he already felt like he'd been up for a million hours. It was going to be another one of those weeks.

"Hey."

He looked to his left, surprised. "Hello."

Rollins smiled at him as they stepped forward with the advancing line. "What are you having? My treat."

They made it to the counter and he didn't waste any time accepting her offer. She wanted something, but at least she had the decency to wait until after they'd fixed their coffees and he'd chugged a third of his. He'd lost the ability to feel pain from scalding hot liquids at least two decades earlier.

They stood off to the side, out of the way of the steady stream of foot traffic and halfway between the truck and the courthouse. It was nice outside, with the late September sun on his face and fresh caffeine coursing through his bloodstream. He watched Rollins blow on her coffee, trying to cool it – amateur – and decided he didn't mind being bought off by her. Not that he'd ever say so. He didn't need the cops thinking he was easy.

"What do you want?"

She peered up at him over the rim of her cup as she took a careful sip. "What makes you think I want anything?"

He lifted his half-empty cup. "Is this not a bribe?"

She shook her head, taking a longer drink. There was barely any steam coming off it now. "It's more like an apology."

He pursed his lips. "What now?"

"What do you mean 'what now'?" She looked suspicious. As if she had the right. "I haven't done anything. Hell, I even got that business with the complaint sorted out. I thought you'd want to know."

"Wha- Wait. _You_ were the one who punched the teenager in the face?" He hadn't looked too closely at the reports – how much of a bad sign was it when police misconduct took a back seat to everything else he had to deal with? – and Liv hadn't come out and told him explicitly who was responsible this time for putting the beatdown on a civilian. Honestly, he thought they all just drew straws sometimes. Or maybe there was a rotation going he wasn't aware of. He shook his head. "Amaro really did rub off on you, didn't he?"

"Objection!" She laughed, and pushed the plastic lid back onto her cup.

"What grounds?" He didn't want to go back in. He wanted another cup of overpriced boiled tar. He wanted a three-day weekend. He did not want to spend the afternoon in direct examination of a kindergarten teacher.

The sun was in their faces; she had to squint when she looked [out at the courtyard]. "Speculation," she said, sounding definite enough about it that he didn't push any farther. It wasn't any of his business, and unlike the rest of the incestuous DA's office he wasn't much of a gossip.

"Sustained." He drained his coffee. "So you really didn't want anything?"

"Not me _specifically_ ," she hedged. Of course. "Since I got yelled at the least – providing you ignore the collective spanking you gave us – we figured I should be the one to…"

"Pump me for information? Get a sneak peek at how I'm going to unfuck your case?" He reconsidered his prior decision – Rollins was too nice. She made small talk. He preferred it when bribers didn't act like they cared about anything other than business.

"Pretty much, yeah. Hey, I volunteered!" she continued over his wry laughter. "I felt bad for you, okay? You got kind of-" she waggled her hand at him, the one holding the cup. He could hear the coffee sloshing around inside.

He wasn't laughing anymore. "Kind of what?"

"Kind of… Well, you know," she said, shrugging and looking away again, sunlight glinting off her bangs. "Don't take this personally-"

"This should be good," he muttered.

"-But you kind of overreacted," she finished, glancing at him and wincing at his expression. "Not that we didn't give you good reason! But c'mon, you've dealt with way worse."

"Sad but true." He checked his watch: recess was over, back to class. He started walking back to the courthouse, but not overly fast. She could keep up without difficulty. He tossed his empty cup into a trashcan as he passed it, not stopping.

She hurried up the steps after him, halting before the doors and reaching out to grab his arm. She didn't look the least bit apologetic when he glared at her, but she did let him go. "Look, I won't lie and say a status update isn't the main reason I'm here, but it's not the only one. Honest." She stuck her hands in her pockets and frowned. "Are you alright?"

He frowned back at her. Was he alright? Of course he was, but he'd be better at the end of the week, when a third of his inbox would be in the outbox, when one of his ongoing trials finally wrapped up – hopefully with a verdict, please God no more hung juries – and when he could relax. But right now it was only Monday. There was still time for catastrophe to strike, at which point he'd be less alright.

Of course he didn't say any of this to Rollins. "Yes?"

She nodded, as if his incredibly brief hesitation had confirmed some suspicion she held. He shouldn't have made his confirmation sound like a question. "How was your date?"

Confused by her sudden change of topic, his frown deepened. "My date?"

"Yeah, you know. The one I interrupted last Friday?" She gave him a sympathetic grin. "Maybe I did you a favor."

"You-" He realized all of a sudden that he'd never corrected her mistaken assumption. Why hadn't he? It wasn't like him to let errors like that slide. "It wasn't a date. Just dinner with a friend, not that it's any of your business."

She rocked back on her heels. So much for commiseration. "Sorry for asking. Wouldn't want to have a non-work-related conversation for two seconds."

He resisted the urge to check either his watch or his phone, which he could feel vibrating in his pocket. This was simply too bizarre to miss. "Why do you even care?"

"I just-" She pushed her bangs out of her eyes. "The rest of us, at the end of the day we leave work _at work_ , you know? And you- Well, you're wound kind of tight," she said, glancing pointedly at how he clung to the handle of his briefcase. "We haven't had a reliable ADA in a while and I don't want you to snap and have a nervous breakdown or anything. That's all."

He stared at her, and some of the chilliness he thought he'd lost that morning crept back into his voice when he said, "There's nothing wrong with how I'm wound." He checked his watch again –  he should've been in court by now instead of standing around having the most ridiculous conversation in recent memory. "The texts are out, computers are probably staying in," he finally said, turning away.

"Take it easy, Counselor," she said. He didn't bother hanging around to find out why she sounded thoughtful instead of pleased, and he didn't thank her for the coffee either. You don't thank people for bribes.

 

Catastrophe did, of course, strike because why wouldn't it? TARU came back on Thursday and said no, there was no Santa Claus. So the computers, after all his hard work, were going to be excluded after all because there was nothing on them. They were clean, and therefore completely useless.

He opened his mouth, closed it. Opened it again. Closed it.

Liv was staring at him with something that looked like concern.

His phone started to vibrate. Instinctively he pulled it out and stared at the screen. Something about juror misconduct and needing him back ASAP. Seriously?

"Hey."

His phone buzzed again. A new message, this time from his secretary, and he read it over and over, not fully comprehending what he was seeing. The kindergarten teacher witness was in the hospital? What? He was supposed to start his redirect that afternoon. You can't question someone in the ICU. Well, you _could_ providing you got permission from everyone involved, but-

A new message popped up.

You _could_ providing the person was _alive_ …

He looked up at Liv.

She was wearing the same expression she used when dealing with shocky bystanders who just saw something that would make the nightly news. "Everything okay?"

Three major cases had just collapsed before his very eyes and she was asking him if everything was okay. "I'll be right back," he said, and left the room as quickly as possible. He had to get back to the courthouse, he had to get back to his office, he-

He ducked into the first washroom he found and locked himself in a stall, slumping back against the door and covering his mouth with one hand. His mind, for once, was a blank. A horrifying stretch of emptiness – he couldn't think. It was just static, a growing hiss in his ears as his brain failed to produce any worthwhile thoughts.

He'd forgotten he was still holding his phone; he startled when it rang. One minute it was in his hand, and the next it was in the toilet, ringtone growing more garbled by the millisecond. It hadn't even happened in slow motion, like most disasters seemed to. It just… Happened. _Plop_. He couldn't say honestly whether he'd dropped it by accident or on purpose.

"Mother _fuck_ ," he whispered, then pushed up his jacket sleeve to fish it out. Now he was down three cases, a phone, and his shirt cuff was soaked with toilet water. _Public_ toilet water. _Police station_ public toilet water.

It wasn't ringing anymore, none of the buttons seemed to work, his cuff was wet, and they were all going to be sued. The school was going to sue them. He was going to end up an ambulance-chaser working out of a strip mall in Brooklyn. He had to get to the hospital and find out if his witness had killed herself or if someone else had done her in. He had five other cases to oversee and now he had no phone.

He rubbed his forehead with his dry hand, staring at his fucked up phone, and started to laugh. God, he was tired.

He stopped laughing when the bathroom door banged open and there was a clicking. Heels? He shook the water off his phone, wondering.

Someone knocked on the stall door he was leaning on. "Barba?"

He froze, looking up at the poured concrete wall. That was Rollins's voice. She was on the other side of the door. "Yes, hi, what?"

"Are you okay?"

Holding his still dripping phone with two fingers, he turned and unlocked the door, opening it a crack. Enough to confirm that yes, that was Rollins. What was she doing in here? Whatever happened to social norms? Did the NYPD suddenly put in unisex bathrooms like in Ally McBeal?

There was a tiny wrinkle between her eyebrows. "Are you okay?" she repeated.

"Why do you keep asking me that? I'm fine." How could one little smartphone hold so much water? It was getting on his shoe. He glared at it. "My phone's toast, but I'm fine."

"You're in the women's washroom," she said.

He paused, then looked around. "I hadn't noticed," he admitted. Now he knew why it smelled so much nicer than usual. And why there weren't any urinals, now that he bothered to look.

She went back to the door and poked her head out, checking the hallway before closing the door and sliding the lock shut. "Now, what's going on? Why are you hiding in here?"

He emerged from the stall like he'd wasn't the least bit embarrassed to be busted. "I wasn't hiding. I needed the privacy. To _think_ ," he said, when her expression became more dubious.

"What were you thinking about? And here, give me that," she gestured towards his phone. "You haven't tried turning it on, have you?"

"No." He handed it over, watching as she turned his new sponge over the sink and shook it. More water. He hoped whatever that last call had been about it hadn't been life or death. Not that he'd be finding out anytime soon. "And I was thinking about corn futures. Is it too late to go short? Should I switch to soy? It's probably not doing any better price-wise."

She stopped fiddling with his phone to level her gaze on him. "If you don't want my help there are nicer ways to say so."

His eyelid twitched. Hopefully it wasn't visible. "Sorry."

She didn't say anything, turning her attention back to his phone and sliding her fingernail along a crack in the back case.

"Two of my jurors got into a fistfight during deliberations," he said suddenly.

"Is that why your phone ended up in the toilet? I'd be pissed too," she said, and popped the back off his phone. She pulled out the SIM card and held it out to him. "No pun intended."

He pocketed it. "I didn't chuck it on purpose."

"Mm. Maybe it's a sign then." She examined the rest of his phone, looking for God only knew what. At least it wasn't dripping as much as before.

"A sign of what?" He knew he should be getting a move on, get on top of things before they got even more out of control, fucking _deal_ with the latest mess he'd been handed, but he didn't want to leave his phone behind. He wanted five minutes to breathe.

He muffled a yawn.

Rollins watched him with one raised eyebrow. "A sign that maybe you should take it easier. It's Thursday, tomorrow's Friday-"

"Excellent detective work there," he said, then waved his hands when she held his phone under the faucet, her hand moving slowly to the tap. "Sorry, uncalled for, sorry."

"See? You can be taught." She moved towards him, away from the sink. "I'm just saying, it's almost the weekend. Your phone's going to be out of commission for at least 10 hours, although really to be on the safe side it should be more like 24."

"You can fix it?" He didn't dare to hope that anything could go right this week. This _month_.

"No promises but yeah, probably. And in the meantime, you could relax a little. Resist the urge to buy a burner phone. Enjoy being hard to get a hold of and have some fun this weekend."

His mind boggled at the idea. Where to even start? "I-I don't have time."

"You're a smart guy, I'm sure you could make some if you really wanted. You have the perfect excuse now to be a bit slower getting back to people." Her smile was downright impish and strangely endearing. Too bad what she was suggesting was completely impossible.

"No, you don't get it. One of my primary witnesses _died_. Two of my jurors need to be replaced with alternates, but given my fucking awful luck this week I'm probably looking at a mistrial. Your computers – yes, _those_ computers – are fucked. This whole week is fucked." He might've waved his hands around a little much. He felt like a Jesus shouter in Times Square, all he needed was a megaphone.

She looked acceptably sympathetic. "Sounds like it can't really get worse, huh?"

He rubbed his forehead. "Please don't say that. It can always get worse." And it probably would the second he left the building. It would probably start raining blood or something. Maybe he'd get mugged on his way to the courthouse.

"I suppose..." She leaned back against the sink, crossing her arms. "But still, all that aside, when was the last time you had any?"

He blinked. _God knows if anyone needs to get_ laid. That _had_ been what she'd meant at the time, they both knew it, _everyone_ knew it, even if she hadn't said it. And now this, and he couldn't help how his eyes moved rapidly over her, even if none of this made any sense. Especially not coming from her.

She flushed, realizing what she'd implied. "I meant fun. When was the last time you had any _fun_?"

Her expansion wasn't really an improvement, he decided. He couldn't remember ever making her blush before. "I have plenty of fun," he said, watching as she tucked a loose lock of hair behind her ear and feeling the need to defend himself. "Loads. All the time."

"Really? Somehow I don't believe you," she said, and there was that dubious look again. That was familiar – most of the time when they interacted she ended up either skeptical or impressed. "C'mon, when was the last time?"

He shrugged, caught sight of his reflection in the bathroom mirror behind her. "Saturday before last."

She shook her head. "Interrupted by work, doesn't count. Try again."

He rolled his eyes, thinking. Nothing about this past weekend had been fun, not in the traditional sense. Most people didn't find anything satisfying in jurisprudence or digging through case law, even if he did. But in terms of just relaxing? Not doing anything work-related?

She smirked, not meanly. "I knew it." She wagged a finger at him. "It's important to maintain a healthy work-life balance."

He laughed. "Rich coming from an SVU cop. Work-life balance my ass."

"Take it from someone who knows, then." She tapped his phone against her palm. "You don't unwind some, Counselor, you're going to end up climbing a clocktower sooner rather than later."

"Really?" He stepped closer, the words out before he realized: "And how do you suggest I unwind?" He hadn't meant for his voice to drop like that towards the end. That was a mistake.

Her eyes narrowed even as her smirk grew into a grin. "I-"

Someone banged hard on the door, making them both jump. "Hey, open the fucking door!"


	5. Gen, the one where Barba gets sick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Technially gen, but was originally meant to end up Barba/Rollins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A second attempt at my ideal workaholic!Barba fic that just refused to come together. I am very fond of this though, but I like classic fluffy hurt/comfort. Second appearance of Barba's secretary, who I continue to be fairly certain is NOT named Tara. I'm sorry!

When you're a kid you focus on all the wrong aspects of adulthood. Eating ice cream for breakfast. Being able to drive. Staying up late. Having your own place that you can paint any colors you want. The good things in life. No kid thinks about balancing a checkbook or renewing their car insurance or what happens when they live alone, have a demanding job, and get sick.

It sucked.

And it always happened suddenly for Barba, came on him like the end of summer. One day it's sunny and warm and you're happy to be alive, and the next day there was a definite chill in the air, the leaves had all dropped off the trees, and you were ready to kill yourself the next time you heard the words "pumpkin spice." The seasons changed seemingly overnight and so did his health, but it was really down to clockwork. Once a year, bam. He never learned.

This time it started when he was in court, partway through jury selection. He felt it when the defense was questioning candidate #24, a nice blonde woman he was planning on moving to dismiss. An itch in his nose, and suddenly it was a sniffle, and then before he knew it he was sneezing into his elbow.

"Sorry, sorry," he said, fishing out his handkerchief, a little embarrassed.

Juror #24 smiled at him and said pointedly, "God bless you."

Yeah, he was dismissing her.

He didn't sneeze anymore but he couldn't stop sniffling either, and as soon as he got out of court he made a beeline to the coffee shop, getting an orange juice instead of his usual, and the cashier gave him a knowing looking as she counted back his change.

Orange juice and fruit smoothies, as much as he could handle of both, and clementines he'd peel and eat at his desk. He always thought he could stave it off with Vitamin C, get ahead of whatever bug he'd caught this time – courthouses, like dormitories, were plague factories – but he was always wrong. Within two days it didn't matter how much Tropicana he chugged, it was a foregone conclusion and he couldn't tell if he felt bad because he was sick or because he'd crashed headfirst into caffeine withdrawal. Probably both.

But for a week or so he wasn't _visibly_ sick. At least he didn't think so. He sneezed a bit, and he sniffled, but he had it mostly under control. He looked as good as ever, he thought, even as he popped aspirin on the sly for his growing headaches. But he kept chugging along. Maintained appearances. Did his job.

He sneezed seven times in a row while waiting on a prisoner at Rikers and Benson gave him a look he couldn't quite quantify. Somewhere between concerned and impressed.

"Allergies," he lied, wiping his nose on one of the handkerchiefs he always made sure to carry now. She looked skeptical but she didn't push it. He was, after all, a grown man. He could take care of himself.

The problem was that he wasn't getting enough sleep. He'd been pulling 70-hour weeks for the last while, prepping for trial after some idiot without a leg to stand on had refused a perfectly reasonable plea deal, supervising two other cases on the side that both looked likely to hit at least the pre-trial phase. Lack of sleep had to be it – he'd left himself vulnerable. Not that there was anywhere in his over-burdened schedule to really squeeze more rest in, but he tried.

God help him, he tried.

 

The guy had been sweating it out in Interrogation 3 for the past hour and their ADA was nowhere to be found.

"We give that guy another cup of coffee and he's going to be climbing the walls, Sarge," Rollins said.

Benson sighed, checked her watch and her phone again in quick succession. "He said he'd be here as soon as possible."

"That was like forty minutes ago. This guy- he could change his mind any minute about talking," she said, watching their suspect jiggle both his knees. His blood to caffeine ratio must have been 1:4 by that point.

"We're waiting," replied Benson in that _discussion over_ tone of hers.

Five minutes later and they heard him coming before they saw him. A series of explosive sneezes in the hallway – Rollins counted four, one right after the other, loud and regular like automatic gunfire – and then there Barba was, standing in the doorway. She swallowed the complaint she had ready about his tardiness in favor of trying not to gawk.

"Are you alright?" Benson said, frowning.

Barba wiped his nose with his handkerchief and nodded. "I'm fine. What's the situation?"

Rollins, eyebrows raised at how nasal he sounded, gave him the details, staring the whole time. Barba, for once, looked bad. Well-dressed as ever, of course, but _bad_. His eyes were red, his nose was redder, and there was a faint pallor lurking under his tan. He stared back the whole time, not in a challenging way but as if he was struggling to focus on what she was saying. She couldn't remember ever seeing him unwell, and it looked like he was in for it.

"Sounds good," he said at the end of her recitation, although it was more like _thounth guud_. Like if a goose tried to speak english and had a sneezing fit immediately after for its trouble. Benson took a couple of steps back and Rollins did the same, not really caring if she was being obvious about it. Quarantine rules in effect, every public servant for themselves. But she still said "bless you" after he was done.

"Sorry," he said, flushed, and she couldn't remember him apologizing for anything either. His nose was the same color as his tie; she resisted the urge to tell him to go home and go to bed. He wouldn't appreciate it. "Find out what he knows," he said, waving them away with an uncharacteristically weak motion of his hand.

They tried not to make it look like they were fleeing the scene, but they totally were. At least their person of interest didn't look like he had the plague.

 

It went a lot smoother than Rollins had expected, and by the time the tap on the glass came things were pretty much wrapped up.

"He gave up his whole crew," she said, shaking her head in disbelief. It never failed to surprise her how quickly people would turn on each other to save their own necks.

"No honor among thieves," Benson intoned with a jaded smile. "We get everything you need?" This was directed at Barba, who looked even worse than he had half an hour ago.

"You got enough," he said, pushing off with his shoulder from where he'd been leaning against the wall observing. "I'll get the warrants."

"Are you sure you're up for that?" It slipped out before Rollins could stop herself. From the corner of her eye she saw Benson wince and duck her head.

His glare was only half-strength, the effect ruined by how glassy his eyes were, like they were going to start watering any second. "You don't need to worry about me, Detective. _I_ can still do my job," he honked. Then he was gone in an affronted whirl of suit and briefcase.

"Sorry I asked," Rollins muttered. And what was he trying to imply? She wasn't the one who looked like she needed to be put out of her misery.

 

Another long night spent poring over paperwork; writing up responses to a pile of motions from defense counsel; checking over case citations some of the junior ADAs had dug up for him; trying futilely to clear his email inbox, and before he knew it it was 2AM and should he even bother to go home? That was valuable time commuting that he could spend sleeping, and it wasn't like he didn't have a change of clothes squirreled away in the office.

Then for two blissful seconds after a horrific sneezing fit his sinuses cleared and he could _breathe_. He could breathe and he could smell and- He had to go home. He smelled like flop sweat and stale cologne. He smelled like someone who lived in his office. Someone sick. Someone who was not in college anymore and could not Febreez themselves and say _good enough_.

This would be his last late night for the week, he decided. No more until he was better. He'd go home, take a hot shower, and go to bed for a few hours. He had to be in court for 9AM, which was far less than ideal, but he could always take a quick nap on his couch after. He'd picked the comfiest one he could find for a reason.

 

She hadn't seen Barba in three days and she didn't exactly jump for joy when she got his email asking her to come to his office to clarify something in one of her reports. Mostly Rollins hoped he wasn't as poorly off as he had been before; he wasn't particularly amiable when he was at his best, and she got the feeling he'd be a miserable sick person.

With "always bring a gift" beaten into her from a young age, she arrived at his office five minutes early with coffee – everyone knew he'd drink anything fixed any which way providing it contained caffeine, though she'd seen him be astonishingly finicky when ordering for himself.

The door was closed; Tara, his secretary, was nowhere in sight. She knocked. When there was no audible response, she knocked again and called, "Barba? You in there?" One beat, two, and she shrugged, tried the door. It opened without so much as a creak and she stepped inside.

The first thing she noticed was the strong smell of Vick's in the heavy air. She waited by the door, letting her eyes adjust – the curtains had all been drawn and it was a lot dimmer in the office than it was in the rest of the building. Still, even in the yellowish light she could easily make out piles of folders on tables, legal boxes stacked by the desk, and Barba's suit jacket hanging off the back of a chair. He had to be around somewhere; he'd left the TV on, familiar-looking staticky security footage paused on the screen.

There was a loud whistle to her right, and she turned. Barba was lying sprawled on the couch, doing his sickly best to snore and failing. Even asleep he sounded terrible.

She set the coffees down on the end table and drew nearer, trying to be quiet. Incredibly, he looked worse than the last time she'd seen him, all clammy and pale under the fluorescent light of the floor lamp positioned next to the couch. He must have been reading – one hand rested lightly on top of an open file, pressing it down against his chest, and a couple of sheets of loose paper slid out and fell as she watched, brushing the fingers of his other hand where it rested against the floor in a pile of discarded tissues.

Waking him up didn't even occur to her; she had a hard time believing the consequences would be worth it. Instead, she retreated, collected the two cups of coffee, and quietly left the room. Ten minutes would be long enough for her to run back down and replace the coffee with something a little easier on the system. Like orange juice. Surely something – someone – else would have woken him up by the time she got back.

 

Tara was back at her desk when Rollins arrived a second time, this time with two bottles of Tropicana – she didn't dare drink coffee in front of Barba and have none to share.

"Is he in there?" she asked.

Tara nodded, resting her chin on her hand. "Can you make him leave?"

" _Me_?" Rollins snorted. "Yeah, right. Maybe Benson could, but not me."

Tara sighed. "Worth a shot. No one else has managed it. Mr. McCoy said he'd fire him if he didn't go home and he said-" she pinched her nose, imitating Barba's current honk "-'then who'll work all these cases?'" She sat back in her chair and crossed her arms, frowning up at Rollins. "They're calling him Typhoid Mary behind his back."

Rollins was at a loss. She'd never seen anyone express real concern over Barba. "I'm sure he can take care of himself," she said awkwardly, falling back on an old stand-by. "In the meantime, is he…" She didn't want to say _awake_ but the door was still shut.

Tara nodded. "He's not dead yet, if that's what you're wondering. I heard him moving around."

"Great." She took a deep breath, gave Tara a _here goes nothing_ smile, and opened the door.

Barba was definitely awake this time, leaning forward from his seat on the couch and gathering up the papers that were scattered across the floor. More than she'd seen when she'd been there earlier; she could easily imagine the whole file slipping away from him, the noise waking him up.

He glanced up at her, then did a doubletake, watery eyes narrowing like he was trying to figure out what she was doing there in the first place.

"You said you wanted to go over the Martowski report?" she said in lieu of small talk when he didn't say anything, her concern increasing at the same rate her confusion did. Barba wasn't a real person like the rest of them, he was a justice robot. Robots didn't get sick, and they didn't look so pathetically disheveled. She'd seen him in shirtsleeves before, tie pulled a little loose, but she'd never seen him look so _rumpled_. It was just wrong.

His expression cleared slightly and he went back to picking up the papers. "Have a seat, Detective," he rasped. "I'll be right with you." Tara's impression wasn't too far off, except now his honk was more of a croak.

She cleared a space at the conference table and set down her bottles of juice, watching him and trying not to be obvious about it as she opened some of the curtains. Not that he would've noticed – he was in no condition to notice anything. After his initial confusion and how he had refrained from commenting on her lateness, she'd realized he likely didn't remember asking her over.

Sniffling the whole time, he got the papers tidied up and back in the folder before he rose stiffly from the couch. For the briefest second she could've sworn he started to list ever so slightly to one side, but then she blinked and he was fine, already at his desk, going through another stack of files before joining her at the conference table, where he practically collapsed into one of the empty chairs. Not one immediately next to her, she was privately grateful to see.

"So, Martowski," he said.

Rollins pushed the bottle of juice towards him and he stared at it for a moment before picking it up. That it was a struggle for him to get the lid off confirmed all of her suspicions. He had to go home. Too bad he'd never listen to her.

She smothered her urge to sigh with a professional smile. "What did you want to know?"

 

Rollins, he decided, was not terrible company. She didn't comment on his appearance, his growing pile of lozenge wrappers, his voice. He knew exactly how shitty he looked because he felt twice as bad. If she had said anything about _anything_ he would've written it off because at no point did she tell him to go home. He appreciated that immensely.

The truth was Barba _did_ want to go home. He wanted to go home so badly he could cry. But he also had three on-going cases that he was dead set on carrying from the cradle to the grave, even if it was looking more and more likely to be _his_ grave. Not to mention the rest of his workload – supervising a couple of junior ADAs, office meetings for status updates, the weekly budget gripefest, plus his alotted intake shifts. He didn't want to try to offload any of his work on colleagues who were just as busy, and he couldn't bring himself to take the necessary time off to recuperate, especially not when it was so close to the weekend. It was Thursday; surely he could make it another day and a half.

Tonight he absolutely would not stay late, not like he had every previous night so far, and he'd take it much easier once the week was over. He just needed more sleep.

If only his head didn't hurt so much. He tried to focus on what Rollins was saying, watching as she tapped a pen at the start of one of the paragraphs in her report, but he found his attention drifting again and again. His face hurt, and he was sick of the taste of cherry Halls, and Rollins looked so healthy, so pretty and fresh in her white blouse, that it just made him feel worse looking at her.

He drained the rest of his orange juice – he was beyond tired of orange juice but he'd had half a cup of coffee that morning and it had not agreed with him, something he'd never thought possible – and frowned profoundly at the empty bottle.

Rollins, not missing a beat as she went over one of the witness statements and rewound the surveillance footage, nudged her untouched juice across the table towards him. For one crazy instant he wanted to kiss her, but that was probably just the gratitude talking. Or the fever. Probably both. God, he was hot. And thirsty. At least the juice was still cold.

"Any other questions?" Rollins sat back in her chair, watching him.

He flipped dully through his notes, squinting through the mental fog that had dropped on him like a wet blanket. "No, that's it for now," he said, the sound of his own voice hurting his ears. "You were very... Comprehensive." In truth he'd just run out of questions, which wasn't surprising considering he hadn't been the least bit prepared for their meeting. He knew he'd arranged it, but he couldn't remember doing so. "They could call you to testify right now and you'd be fine," he added, surprising himself by meaning it.

Her smile was bright, pleased even as she tucked a lock of her shining hair back behind her ear a little shyly. He wondered if her hair was as soft as it looked, and shivered, then rubbed his temple. Now was not – was never – the time for thinking anything like that. And _why_ was he thinking anything like that? There was work to do. He stood, shivering, suddenly remembering some paperwork he needed her to sign.

"Was there something else?" she asked, puzzled.

"Yes, just-" There was a sound to his right, and he turned, dropping the folder he was holding. "Damnit," he muttered, and bent to collect it – at least the papers hadn't fallen out this time. He straightened, and there it was again: the sound. Music, actually. The Blue Danube, which was strange, he couldn't remember the last time he'd heard it. Sweat broke out over his body.

"Barba?" Rollins, half out of her seat, wore a strange expression on her face. It looked a lot like one of Liv's. "Are you alright?"

He waved a hand at her, barely hearing her over the sound of the blood pounding in his ears. "I'm fine," he said, blinking hard. The folder slipped out of his hand again, and he looked down at it. Hadn't he just picked it up? "I'm fine."

He was out before he hit the floor.

 

"Ah, hell," Rollins managed as Barba's eyes rolled back in his head and he started to drop. She darted forward, giving up at the last minute on catching him and aiming more to cushion his fall. Which she did bodily – her hip banged against the floor as she went down under him, arms wrapped around his chest. It mostly worked out: his head hadn't come anywhere near enough to the floor to bounce off it, something she was sure he'd appreciate later.

In the meantime she sat up, stuck cradling Barba with a needle-like pain stabbing through her hip, and he was _heavy_. She took a breath – he smelled like camphor and menthol instead of his usual expensive cologne – and leaned over him, gently pulling back one eyelid. Yep, he was out, the lights were not on and no one was home. She smoothed her hand over his sweaty forehead. Heat was radiating off of him worryingly.

"Tara!" she shouted.

The office door banged open before she'd closed her mouth, and Tara rushed forward immediately, not waiting and gaping in the doorway. Rollins knew she'd liked her for a reason. "Is he okay? What happened?"

"Probably just passed out," Rollins said. "Help me get him to the couch."

Tara swallowed nervously but grabbed his ankles.

"Jesus, he's heavier than he looks," Rollins muttered, briefly entertaining the idea of trying to hoist him up by his suspenders as if they were in a cartoon.

"Dead weight," Tara said, then blanched.

Together they managed to cart him the short distance to the couch and got him laid out.

Tara, wringing her hands, asked, "Should I call an ambulance?"

Rollins rubbed her hip. At least she hadn't fallen on her gun. That would have hurt a helluva lot more. "I don't think so," she said slowly. "I doubt it was a heart attack or a stroke, and he didn't hit his head. He's been sick for a while, yeah?"

Tara nodded. "Past week-and-a-half, two weeks, though he wouldn't admit it. But he's gotten a lot worse in the last couple of days."

"Figures." Rollins sighed and crouched down until she was level with him. His lips were parted, his chest rose and fell, but there was none of that awful whistling snore to be heard. He wasn't asleep, but he certainly wasn't conscious either. She pressed the back of her hand to his forehead again, cringing at the heat, before she sat back on her heels. "I think he just passed out," she said again, not just for Tara's benefit alone. "Look, can you do me a favor? Do you know who would get his cases if he weren't such a stubborn bastard? Temporarily?"

Tara, like any normal person, looked immediately happier when faced with a problem she knew how to handle. "Yeah. Yes. Want me to-"

"Yes, please." Rollins shook her head, rising from her crouch with a wince. Definitely going to bruise. "Better to ask forgiveness than beg permission, right? I'll stay here and keep an eye on him while you do that."

"Right. Okay." Tara was out the door and back in before Rollins could blink. "Should I call the DA? Let him know what's happened?"

"Yes. And tell him Mr. Barba has had enough fun and will be going home for the day. Probably for the rest of the week," she said, deciding for him. It wasn't her place to do so, but for once he wasn't in any fit state to agree or disagree with her. It was unsettling.

" _Finally_." Tara smiled grimly. "Thank you." She left the door open, and a faint breeze drifted in from the hall.

 

The first thing Barba saw was the ceiling, and he spent long seconds staring at it, trying to get his bearings. Hadn't he just been standing? And now he was lying down; he'd been there long enough for his headache to dissipate a bit. In fact, his forehead felt pleasantly cool. He raised his hand, dragging his fingers over what felt like a wet cloth plastered over his brow.

"Sleeping Beauty awakes." Rollins was sitting a _very_ short distance away, leaning forward and looking intent in one of his many chairs. She held out a glass of water. "Do you know what day it is?"

He ignored the glass to pull himself up to a sitting position, holding the cloth to his forehead with one hand, blinking away a mild case of the spins. Why were they sitting around chatting? Didn't they both have jobs? "Thursday, unfortunately, and seeing as how I have a prelim this afternoon, if you wouldn't mind-"

"Plans have changed, Counselor." She actually had the nerve to lay her hand on his shoulder and push him back down to the couch when he tried to get up, and disturbingly enough he didn't have the strength to resist. "The only thing on your schedule now is going home and getting into bed."

He glared at her. The urge to say something childish like _you're not the boss of me_ grew more tempting by the moment, but he undermined it by taking the water she insisted on offering him.

"Don't sulk, it's for your own good," she said, squeezing his shoulder once before leaning back. "You gave me a bit of a scare, fainting like you did."

He let the hand holding the cloth – actually a makeshift compress of neatly folded paper towels – drop into his lap. "Wait, what?"

"'Fraid so. Went white as a sheet and dropped like a sack of-" she paused, rethinking her next words. "Well, let's just say it was _very_ dramatic." She said it like he should be pleased or somehow reassured, but it had pretty much the opposite effect.

Barba sipped his water, incapable of looking at her, workload forgotten in the face of this new information. He'd _fainted_? That explained the sense of lost time, at least, but grown men, accomplished professionals like himself, didn't faint. They certainly didn't faint at work in front of other people. Blood rushed to his face. Was he really that badly off?

"It was quite the swoon – any deb worth her salt would have been impressed," she continued, and fine, she was teasing him. That was alright, he could deal with that better than naked concern. From her, a junior colleague, it would have been unbearable. It was already embarrassing beyond belief.

He cleared his throat with some difficulty despite the water. What was there he could say? Should he thank her? Apologize? Swear her to secrecy? His mind felt like a engine whose gears kept grinding.

"No need to thank me for catching you," she said before he could speak, and her grin didn't seem the least bit forced when he snuck a look. "Just doing my job. Serve and protect, all that fun stuff."

He sighed, shoulders slumping, and slapped the dampest part of the bundled towels back against his forehead.

"Barba."

He looked over at her blearily, trying not to sniffle.

"You need to go home," Rollins said, the same way Liv sometimes spoke to him. Serious, willing him to be convinced, totally disinclined to argue. "The job will wait."

Three cases, the other ADAs, a set of motions he'd received that morning _alone_ -

She raised a finger, as if she could hear all his objections and was dismissing them. "You need to go home," she said again.

He sighed, tugging at the knot of his necktie. "Alright," he said, caving in the face of the overwhelming evidence against him. It wasn't like he couldn't work from home anyway. He dropped his warm paper towel bundle onto the couch and rubbed his clammy hand on his pantleg before holding it out to her. "Help me up?"

 

Of course it couldn't be as simple as stuffing Barba into a cab and saying job done. No, Rollins had to go and feel responsible for him. Had to make sure he actually got home alright, which meant hanging around while he got all his shit together. She blamed it on being an older sister – a lifetime of Kim had left her with the intense urge to mother people. At least Barba wouldn't repay her by robbing her blind and getting her arrested.

Rollins used the time to text Benson and say things were going a little longer than expected – not untrue, but not full disclosure either. She didn't think Barba would appreciate it if she went and spilled the beans on just how poorly off he was.

"You don't need to babysit me," Barba honked at her. He sounded a little better but he'd just finished checking with Tara for the third time that someone would be standing in for him at that afternoon's hearing, and he was looking pale. "I'm not a child." He underlined this point by blowing his nose and groaning.

Rollins shook her head and got up, stuffing her phone in her pocket and pushing the chair in. She couldn't tell if he was dragging his heels because he was that much of a workaholic or because his brain was so fried that he couldn't remember what had just happened. Either way, enough was enough. "Time to go, Counselor."

He rubbed his forehead with one hand, turning in a small circle next to his desk, a lost expression on his face. "No, I need to make sure Barclay can find the-"

She tossed his suit jacket over her arm and tugged at his elbow, pulling him gently towards the door. "You already did that. Leave it, get your bag, and let's go. I don't want to be here all day. Where's your coat?"

He didn't even try to pull away, just shuffled along to grab his bag which Tara had thoughtfully packed and set next to the door. "I didn't wear one. I told you, you don't-"

"Clearly someone has to or you'll never leave," she interrupted, pulling the door shut behind them. "Now quit arguing with me or I'll arrest you for being an idiot." She resumed pushing Barba along with a hand at his back, rolling her eyes at Tara.

"Have a good night," Tara said from behind her desk.

"Good night," Barba mumbled absently. They'd almost made it to the elevator when he suddenly wheeled around. "I have to tell her where Barclay-"

"No, no, no," Rollins said, catching him by the arm again and pulling him back to the elevator. "You did that, don't worry. She can handle it. Come on."

"Oh." The doors slid open and he stumbled into the empty elevator car to lean back against the wall, hugging his bag.

She was about to hit the button for the ground floor when she had a horrible thought. "You didn't _drive_ here, did you?"

He didn't even open his eyes, just shook his head very slowly from side to side. "Cabbed it."

She let out a sigh of relief.

 

Barba's apartment uptown was pretty much what she expected: nice, expensive. A lot of neutrals, a little on the spare side. Except for a few large black-and-white photographs on the walls there wasn't much in the way of decorative wall-hangings, but she figured everything he wanted to hang was already up at his office.

His fridge, on the other hand, went far beyond spare and nosedived into empty. Instinct and past experience with Kim had pushed her to check in the first place. After depositing Barba on the couch she'd decided to take a quick peek; no point getting him home just to have him starve.

She stared: two apples in the crisper and half a jar of olives. "Where's all your food?" she called. There weren't even any condiments. Who didn't have condiments? When she didn't get a response, she checked the cupboards and found them not much better. A box of saltines, a box of Ritz, and a box of Triscuits. It was downright unnatural.


	6. Barollins, the one that's just blatant het PWP

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barba/Rollins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel deeply ashamed of this because there's nothing weird about it, it's just a boring old NSA midday hook-up. I should've written this all in one go because there was no chance I'd ever go back to it once I woke up and realized what I'd done.

She'd just finished scrubbing the kitchen floor when her cellphone rang. For the length of two rings she considered ignoring it – it was her first day off in what felt like forever, she had things she wanted to do, and damnit she was tired of dealing with people – but it went against her nature. She never could abide a ringing phone. Her knee creaked when she stood up and snatched it off the countertop, answering without checking the display first. "Rollins."  
  
"Where are you?"  
  
Her eyes widened. "Well, hello to you too, Counselor."  
  
"Yes, hi, where are you?" He had to be outside, she could hear wind and traffic.  
  
"I'm at home," she said. "Why?"  
  
"Can I come over?"  
  
She frowned slightly at his tone. "Shouldn't you be in court?"  
  
"Just got out. Can I come over?" He sounded brusquer than usual, almost jittery.  
  
"Alright," she said slowly. "Did something happen?"  
  
"I'll tell you when I get there," he said. "See you in a bit."  
  
She looked at her phone - he'd actually hung up on her. She shook her head, setting her phone back down on the counter and stashing the cleaning things, cracking the window before going to tidy herself up. She refused on principle to dress up – whatever they had going didn't mean that much, for starters. It was just some inexplicable thing that had happened at the end of a particularly tiring case and, for some reason, kept on happening. They didn't talk about it and she hoped they never did. It might stop working then, and it worked real well.  
  
She still brushed her hair and her teeth, threw on some lipgloss even if she didn't change out of her t-shirt and sweats or bother to put on a bra. God knew he'd be fancy enough for both of them, and more underwear would probably just get in the way.  
  
There was a knock at the door a surprisingly short time later, and when she opened the door it was to the sight of ADA Rafael Barba leaning against the doorframe, briefcase dangling from his fingers. She was right about him being fancy; that light grey suit of his probably cost a month of her rent, but damn if he didn't look good in it.  
  
"Hi," she said, rolling her eyes when a huge shit-eating grin broke across his face. "I take it you won, then?"  
  
"Guilty verdicts across the board," he said, looking criminally pleased with himself.  
  
"Come in and let me pour you a drink," she said, turning away. "Never too early to celebrate."  
  
He followed after her into the apartment, knocking the door closed with his foot. "Thanks but no thanks. I didn't come here to drink."  
  
Her heart started to beat a bit faster. She hadn't even made it to the kitchen. "Then why  _did_  you come here?" As if they didn't both know.  
  
He dropped his briefcase in the hall and advanced on her at a slow strut, his hands in his pockets. "Take off your pants, get on the couch, and I'll show you."  
  
She couldn't help snickering, but he didn't take any offense. Probably because she was doing as she was told. "You know, I actually thought something was wrong earlier?" She folded her sweats and draped them over the arm of the couch before she plopped down on it, crossing her legs out of habit even as she slouched in a very unladylike fashion.  
  
"Sorry to be misleading, I was in a hurry." Not sounding the least bit apologetic, he tugged at his pantlegs before kneeling before her, smirking at her sharp inhalation. He tapped her knee with two fingers, shifting closer when she uncrossed her legs. "I've been thinking about this for a while," he said, hooking his fingers in the waistband of her panties and tugging at them.  
  
She arched up, just enough so he could pull them down, biting her lip as she watched him draw them over her thighs and down her legs. "How long's a while?"  
  
He tossed her panties off to the side of the room and pushed her knees apart gently, moving forward to kneel between her legs. "Popped into my head when the judge charged the jury. Isn't that horrible?" He lifted her leg and settled it over his shoulder before he licked his thumb and rubbed her clit, watching her with hooded eyes as she moaned and dropped her head back against the couch.  
  
"Wait, how- Ah! How long ago was that?" she gasped.  
  
He ignored her, preferring to put his mouth to a very different use than answer her question. His tongue was relentless against her, and she soon forgot completely that she'd ever asked him anything at all. She grabbed at the top of the couch back, needing something to hold onto, her other hand settling on his head, fingers threading through his gelled hair. She felt a perverse joy in ruining his coif - it was always so perfect - but her joy was short-lived. He glared up at her, tongue swirling, and then there was the faintest scrape of teeth against her clit and she came, shaking against him and pulling his hair.  
  
She slumped back against the couch, petting at him and shuddering when he gave her a series of long, lazy licks. He renewed his attack in short order, hands grabbing at her hips to hold her in place when she squirmed and tried to arch away, the stimulation too much too soon. She dug the heel of her foot into his back as she whined, his suit jacket silky smooth under her thigh.  
  
"Five hours," he said, after she'd come a second time and he'd leaned back, giving her a break. She couldn't stand to look at him but she couldn't look anywhere else either; his face was flushed and shiny, wet. It was obscene. She'd never be able to look at him at work again.  
  
"What?" She was too busy trying to catch her breath to understand and listlessly playing with his hair, using both hands to smooth it back off his sweaty forehead.  
  
He ran his hand soothingly over her thigh, rubbing his cheek against her warm skin. "The jury was out for five hours. I was losing my mind thinking about the case, thinking about this. I can't believe they came back so soon."  
  
Her heart jumped when he grabbed her other leg, hooking her knee over his shoulder. He pulled her further forward on the couch until her ass was just barely on the cushion. It should've been an uncomfortable position, would've been if she'd been capable of caring, but she wasn't. Not when his mouth was back on her, and he peeled her hands off his head, holding her wrists tightly at her sides as he fucked her with his tongue. She writhed beneath him, sweat breaking out anew over her body, torn between wanting to push him away and hold him close. In the end she tried to do both, trying to twist free of his grip while simultaneously clamping her thighs tight against his head, her feet pressed against his back.  
  
"Oh, Christ," she panted, giving up and rocking against him, reduced to begging when his tongue darted teasingly into her. "Please, just- I need- Jesus Christ,  _please_ -" She bit her lip against further babbling, and bit it harder when he nuzzled her clit, arching when he sucked carefully at the sensitive nub and she came a third time.  
  
"Oh my god," she said, rubbing her hand over her damp forehead after he finally let her go. Her legs dropped bonelessly off his shoulders; she was incapable of doing anything other than stare at the ceiling and try to remember how to breathe.  
  
Too easily, he pulled himself up and sat on the couch next to her, clearly full of more energy than she currently possessed. He looked immensely pleased with himself as he shrugged off his jacket, moreso even than when he'd first arrived at her door – she hadn't thought that possible. At least his hair was a mess; it made his conceit endearing rather than annoying.  
  
She dragged herself up to a sit with some difficulty and eyed him suspiciously, wary of the twinkle he had in his eye as he rolled up his shirt sleeves. Her worst fears were confirmed when he rubbed his sticky face against her sweaty neck, crowding her as he pushed his hand between her still-parted legs.  
  
"Oh my  _god_ ," she groaned, eyes rolling back in her head when he stroked her. "Are you fucking kidding me?"  
  
The smug bastard had the nerve to laugh at her; she could feel his grin against her neck. "If you'd rather not…" His fingertips brushed against her; she was so wet she could barely feel it.  
  
She grabbed at the strap of his suspenders, bunching the material in her fist. "You're not human," she said, eyebrows knitting as he easily pushed two fingers into her cunt.  
  
"Gave it up when I passed the bar," he murmured into her ear, his other arm stretched along the top of the couch behind her head.  
  
She leaned helplessly into him, clinging to him, her arm trapped between their bodies as he worked her. There was no friction at all - she was too wet. It was making her crazy. Or maybe it was the sound his fingers made sliding into her, every motion producing a filthy squelching sound. She could just make out the lingering scent of his cologne; normally a sharp, clean smell, heat and sweat had turned it into something altogether more mouth-watering.  
  
He turned her head with his free hand, tilting it so he could kiss her. She could still taste herself on his tongue, and she moaned, panted against his mouth when he slipped her a third finger and increased his speed. She squeezed her eyes shut, shifting continuously against him, her world narrowing to the sweat rolling freely down her side; his fingers curling inside her; his thumb rubbing her throbbing clit.  
  
"I'm going to fuck you," he said, eyes dark and color high as she stared up at him in disbelief, grabbing at his wrist to hold his hand in place as she trembled to pieces against him.  
  
She slumped against him afterwards, moaning quietly when he drew his fingers away. She began to shiver uncontrollably when he licked them, her head pillowed against his warm chest – he was radiating heat. He repositioned her carefully, pulling her into his lap, practically cuddling her as he reclined back against the arm of the couch. He slowly pulled up her sweat-soaked t-shirt, brushing his knuckles against the underside of her breast; she batted uselessly at his hand.


	7. Barollins, the one where Barba's a crooked lawyer for the mob

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rollins has to pay off a debt. A sexy debt. Barba/Rollins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate that this had a whole godawful plot worked out and I was just too lazy to write it. In a nutshell: Rollins, cop, gets in deep with the mob via gambling debts and crooked mob lawyer!Barba makes her problems go away in exchange for either a favor or some banging. She picks banging in his tiny office over a Chinese place. It turns into a big complicated thing, or it would have if I'd finished it. Lucky I didn't, right?
> 
> That's doing it a disservice but there you go, not exactly complicated. Anyway, I'm trash so I only wrote the banging, which ended up being kind of sweet IMO. Like I said, trash.

Barba does not belong in this place at all, he's like a Faberge egg at a yard sale but he's still sitting in that chair like it's his throne and she's so thrown by the locale that she starts laughing. "Nice digs."  
  
"I needed an address for my magazine subscriptions." Then suddenly he's not joking anymore, his eyes are hard and his smile is mean. He uncrosses his legs, foot hitting the floor definitively, and he says, "You're done after this. If I ever see you again anywhere besides a police station or a courthouse I'll be very upset."  
  
Rollins stutters a laugh, eyes darting around the tiny room but there's nowhere she can look without seeing him sprawling. It feels like the temperature jumped ten degrees. "Yeah, uh, about that…"  
  
He's not smirking now, he looks very serious when he pats his thigh and says, "Take off your shoes and come here."  
  
She takes a deep breath, inhaling the smells of burnt cooking grease and old smoke. Thinks about how much she owes, thinks about what she gets paid, and takes off her heels, sets them neatly to the right of the door, then walks forward. It's a very short distance, and before she knows it she's standing between his spread legs and he has to look up at her.  
  
He pats his leg again, just once, the corner of his mouth twitching, and she rolls her eyes but she sits down anyway, making the chair creak. It's a firm seat; she shifts back for balance, her hands primly clasped over her legs, knees together. She feels far younger than she is, and much stupider than normal, and more than a little anxious. The floor is cold under her stocking feet.  
  
There's nothing subtle about how he looks at her, and in some way that's reassuring. He openly considers her chest, and when he raises his hand she braces herself but he touches her hands instead, pulls them apart and sets one on her knee. She looks down at his big hand covering her own and watches him slowly push at it, at her knee. She lets him part her legs and doesn't flinch until he drags his fingers up her spine unexpectedly.  
  
She glares at him then but he doesn't laugh, doesn't even smile, and she thinks  _okay, this is okay_  as he palms her back. He leisurely slides her hand up her thigh and she lets him, throttling down on her urge to get up and walk away. He glances at her but she's pointedly not resisting, not even when his hand leaves her own to press against the inside of her thigh and skim further up. His thumb brushes her crotch once, light, like he's testing her. When she doesn't object, doesn't react, he does it again, this time harder, his thumb dragging up along the seam of her pants, pressing against her, and she can't help clenching in response.  
  
The hand on her back sweeps down to settle on her waist, not pulling her in closer but it still feels proprietary in a way she doesn't like. She tells herself she doesn't like any of this, even the parts that feel good – and it  _all_  feels good so far. She's told countless women it's not their fault if they enjoyed it – words like  _coercion_  and  _duress_  and  _extortion_  flit through her mind – but she looks at his face, at the flush in his cheeks and how he licks his lips before touching her so carefully, and she thinks right now it maybe is her fault.  
  
"I've never been with a cop before," he says, drumming his fingers against her side. His voice is very low as he raises his hand from between her legs to pluck at the buttons of her blouse. She watches his fingers start on opening her shirt, breathing growing more unsteady as he works his way down, popping one button after another, gold wristwatch peeking out from under his cuff. He gets halfway and apparently that's far enough because he pushes her shirt open, traces the lacy trim of her bra where it rests against her chest. Her hands are fists on her thighs.  
  
"What's your policy on first time offenders?" He looks up at her, biting his lip as he draws circles on the satin material. "Will you go easy on me?" He cups her breast and gives it a slow, deep squeeze, looking at her mouth when she inhales shakily.  
  
He pushes her shirt back over her shoulder to drag down the strap of her bra, enough so that he can push his hand into the cup and palm her breast properly. His other hand leaves her waist, tips her head towards his so he can press a kiss to the corner of her still-parted mouth, tongue flicking against her lip.  
  
The ball of her shoulder presses against his chest as he gropes her, kisses her cheek, her jaw. His leg presses against her knees; he's got her trapped, holds her in place in so many ways. His hand is hot against her skin, palm soft against her nipple, and she sighs as he sucks at her neck.  
  
She shifts in his lap again, turns more towards him, her hand coming to rest on his shoulder, and just like that they're kissing. It's deep and dirty right from the get-go, Barba licking into her mouth like he thinks she's in danger of forgetting why she's there. But he doesn't stop touching her, and she gives as good as she gets, kissing him hard, willing him to take her guilt like some sort of modern day sin-eater and feeling his body tense under her. He smells better than any sleazy mob lawyer should, and she pulls away with a gasp, fisting her hand in the material of his thousand-dollar silk shirt.  
  
"I didn't think this through at all," he says, nuzzling her neck as he pinches her nipple.  
  
"Extortion is never a good idea," she replies glibly, silently agreeing, squirming on his thigh and momentarily hating herself more than him.  
  
"Not that," he says, and shifts his hands, pulls her closer so he can rock minutely against her, cheap folding chair squeaking threateningly. "This shitty room is too small for me to fuck you on the floor like I want. There isn't any floorspace." He's hard against her and she thinks about him laying her down, pushing into her, and she must be in trouble because it doesn't sound as bad as it did when she first entered the room.  
  
"I bet you regret not having a desk in here now, huh?" she says bitterly, and he laughs, low and pleased.  
  
"Playing along, Detective? How agreeable of you," he says, dragging his hand along her hip and down the outside of her thigh. "I have one in my apartment. It's more than big enough to bend you over, but I don't think we know each other well enough for me to invite you home just yet."  
  
She's getting tired of him feeling her up, enjoyable as it is. She's afraid she likes it too much; she wants to get this over with. She hooks her fingers under the strap of his suspenders and draws it towards her. "Stop fucking around," she says, and lets go, the strap making a satisfying snap against his chest.  
  
He inhales sharply, fingers digging into her thigh and shoulder as he glares at her. He's breathing harder. "Don't do that again," he says.  
  
She licks her lip, watches him track the movement, and then does it again, snapping it even harder. She hopes it hurts.   
  
He shoves her forward and she stumbles off his lap, almost falls. That's more in line with what she'd expected. "I  _said_ -"  
  
" _Stop fucking around_ ," she repeats, yanking her shirt up over her bare shoulder and backing away to lean against the door. "I'm not one of your girlfriends, don't make this into something it isn't."  
  
He laughs as he rises from the chair and advances on her. "I try to be  _nice_  for once and look where it gets me," he says, shaking his head.  
  
She tries to turn away, anticipating the worst, but he grabs her shoulders, shoves her back against the door and kisses her, boxes her in. Her hands come up to rest on his chest, meaning to force him away, and he grabs her wrists, pushes her hands to her sides and leans against her so she can feel how hard he is.  
  
She stares past him when he releases her, starts on her pants.  
  
"Step out," he says; he's pushed them down her legs and he's crouching at her feet, head level with her crotch. She stares at him, feeling a surge of anger at herself for how willing she is to do this. Feels anger  _for_  herself, for everyone else he's ever played vulture to, and channels it into slapping him across the face.  
  
He moves with it, hand darting out to grab at her knee, and she tenses but he doesn't otherwise react. He stands up, cheek red where she connected, and takes her hand in his, leading her forward. When he's sure she'll follow him the short distance he lets her go and keeps backing up, hooking his thumbs under his suspenders and drawing them off his shoulders, letting them drop to hang from his waist. She watches as he pops the buttons on his pants, pushes them down along with his underwear, revealing his hard cock, and yeah, she's okay with this. She shouldn't be, but she's fucked- Well, maybe not  _worse_  men, but definitely bad men for worse reasons, not that she can think of any as she pushes him back down on the chair.  
  
His hands are on her hips as soon as she's back in his lap, straddling him this time, holding her panties to the side with one hand, the other guiding his cock into her. He's watching her face intently as she sinks down on him, his eyelids fluttering shut as she takes his length, settles against him.  
  
"Be gentle with me," he murmurs, pushing his hands up under her shirt.  
  
Rollins sighs, barely skirting a moan, her arms going to rest heavily on his shoulders as he starts to rock against her. Her stocking feet slide against the floor as he palms her ass and they find a rhythm, moving against each other.  
  
She showed up fully expecting it fast and hard, expecting it to hurt, but it's none of those things and that just makes it more awful. She lets Barba set the pace and it's agonizingly slow, gravity doing most of the work in keeping him buried deep in her, keeping her sighing into his neck. He really does smell incredible, warm and musky, edible. It makes her hate him a little more.  
  
"I don't ever want to see you again after this," he says, squeezing her ass as he increases his pace incrementally. She wonders who he's trying to convince.  
  
She pushes her hand into his hair, feeling slick gel against her fingers as she looks down at the floor, at his suit jacket lying in a pile where at some point it fell off the back of the chair. Her eyes close and she listens to the wet sounds of their bodies meeting, underscored by the rhythmic squeaking of the chair and their ragged breathing. The acoustics of the tiny room are too good; it's like being in a shower stall without the water running, everything sounds crystal clear and louder for it.  
  
The elastic band of her panties drags suddenly against her clit and she whimpers into his ear, the silks of his clothes brushing her exposed chest where her shirt still gapes open. He moans, grabs at her hip, one hand sliding over her shirt to press between her shoulders, holding her close as he arches up into her, sliding in at just the right angle.  
  
Her hand leaves his hair for his neck, her fingernails biting into the skin, and she gasps into his ear, "Right there, right there, oh  _Christ_ -" and she starts to shake and it feels like it goes on forever until she simply can't anymore. She whines and shudders as he keeps going even after she sags in his arms and wishes they were different people, that they weren't what they were, that there was any chance they could ever do this again. Crazy thoughts, and she trembles as he shoves into her hard, groaning harshly and pressing his face to her hair, and it's his turn to shake, his body gone tense beneath her.  
  
She leans back, drags her fingers over his face, rocks against him when she traces his bottom lip and he takes her fingertip into his mouth, bites it lightly. "Are we even?"  
  
He stares up at her as she slips a second finger into his mouth, pushing them in up to the knuckle, touching his tongue as he sucks on them, jerking against her. His eyes are very dark. A large, loud part of her doesn't want to hear him say  _yes_. She wishes that part would shut the hell up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hilariously enough, I wrote this loooong before I saw that episode where Rollins was coerced into working for some illegal gambling den people and an undercover cop and now I'm like "I'm the worst."


	8. Barisi, the one where a depressed Barba gets carted along to the Carisi family Christmas dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barba/Carisi. Warning: oblique references to attempted suicide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an outtake from a much longer fic that - thankfully - was never fully written and would've been my partner in crime's fault anyway if I did. I BLAME YOU STILL, JENNY.
> 
> So I was going to write a fic where a super depressed Barba attempted suicide (I KNOW I'M SORRY), failed, and ended up staying with Sonny (because why not). The bit I'm posting is set fairly far along in the story, but if the prospect of any of that upsets you (past wrist-slitting is referenced at one point but not super explicitly), just skip this. Skip this whole chapter anyway, I still feel bad about it. But if for whatever reason you don't, prepare yourself for a lot of headcanon. A _lot_.

"No, I just… It's Christmas, Ma," he said in an undertone, watching Barba watch infomercials. Who watched infomercials? Nobody. "He's in kind of a bad place- No, it's none- Look, I'm not gonna tell you, just give up already. Can I bring him or what?" Of course his mom said yes, and with minimal pointless grumbling about how last minute it was, and how Sonny never told her anything anymore, and didn't he remember how he used to tell her everything? Which had never been true, but he didn't say that.

He didn't have time. He had less than two hours to convince Barba to go to Christmas dinner with him.

 

"I'm sorry," Sonny said again as they got out of the cab.

Barba didn't say anything as they made their way up to the house. They had to walk on the lawn because _someone_ – Uncle Gerry – still hadn't learned to park in the driveway.

"Seriously, I apologize in advance," he insisted, worrying the longer Barba didn't say anything. He used to talk a lot more than this.

"Apologizing for your family already?" Sofie was sitting on the porch, smoking a cigarette, and she didn't put it out when she stood up and wrapped an arm around Sonny, half hugging him while she obviously looked Barba over. "You'll make your friend here think we're a disaster," she said.

"I've met Sonny," Barba said dryly. "I already think that." And that was kind of mean but Sonny let it slide for all sorts of reasons.

 

It was weird, dragging Barba into the living room and introducing him to the family as 'Rafael.' Not _nice_ , exactly, but… Weird. Just weird.

 

Dinner, of course, wouldn't be served for another four hours.

 

"What is going on?" His mother had him cornered in the kitchen and was close to stabbing him with a wooden spoon. "What did you do?"

Sonny brought his hands up defensively, batting away the spoon. "What? Why do you always assume I did something? I didn't do anything! What are you even talking about?"

She rapped his hand with the spoon. "Because I am your mother, Dominick, and after forty excruciating hours of labor, I know how much of a pain you can be-"

"Oh God, here we go," he said, rolling his eyes and leaning back against the counter.

She tapped his cheek this time. "Don't be so disrespectful. Tell me what's going on."

"Nothing! Nothing is going on, I told you."

She narrowed her eyes. "He's wearing your sweater. Did you think nobody noticed? Aunt Marie – God rest her soul – got you that sweater a year ago, I remember because I helped her pick it out because she'd gone _blind_."

Sonny resisted the urge to ask if his mother had also been blind at the time. It was just a nervous reaction, and there was nothing to be nervous about. He was just going to lie his ass off in a second to his mother. "Fine, Jesus-"

"Don't swear," she said absently, eyes locked on his face.

"You have to promise not to tell anyone, okay? I said I wouldn't and now I am and…" He cupped her shoulder and sighed, like she'd finally worn him down. "He'd be embarrassed, see?"

She nodded, eyes widening at the promise of forbidden knowledge. As soon as she 'found out' the entire family was going to know two minutes later.

He rubbed her shoulder. "His wife… She left him, okay? Two days ago. Christmas Eve eve or whatever, cleaned out their place, took everything and split. Everything, didn't even leave him a pot to piss in."

Maria _gasped_. The woman watched too many soaps. "Oh, that poor man!" She pressed her hand to her chest, still holding the spoon. "What kind of- But he's so- Oh, that's just so sad, that explains _everything_ ," and Sonny almost felt bad when she teared up. She gripped his hand. "You're a good boy, looking after him like this."

He winced. "Yeah, well… Just don't tell anyone, okay?"

She crossed herself. "Won't tell a soul."

 

Barba pushed him into the bathroom. "Why is your family suddenly so intent on finding me a wife?"

Sonny shrugged, alarmed by how often he was getting cornered this year. Most of the time his family just ignored him. He never thought he'd prefer that. "They like you? Although I don't know _why_ -"

"A _new_ wife," Barba said, glaring up at him, and there was no reason they should've been standing so close together that Sonny could feel it when he shifted from one foot to the other, knee touching his. The bathroom wasn't _that_ \- Yes, it was that small.

He tried to find a delicate way to explain. "I _may_ have told them that… Your wife left you," he said in a rush. When Barba didn't reply, he explained, "It was the only thing I could think of! The alternative was telling them the truth, and-"

Barba closed his eyes and shook his head minutely. "Fine. This is my fault anyway, agreeing…" He tugged at his borrowed necktie, frowning. "How much more of this am I going to have to endure?"

"Uh..." Sonny checked his watch. "We eat in two hours."

 

Two hours later and when everyone sat down to dinner Sonny realized he'd lost Barba. Aunt Lucille on one side, his cousin – Jake? Jack? He could never keep the twins straight – on the other, and he looked worriedly up and down the table until he spotted him, sandwiched between his nieces-in-law. The one trying to pour him more wine – he had his hand over the mouth of his glass – while the other kept patting his shoulder, trying to get his attention, and Jesus, Sonny could've gone his whole life without seeing his family tagteam Barba like that, but he was laughing anyway.

And Barba must have heard it because he gave Sonny such a _look_ , a narrow sideways glance so pointed it stopped the laughter in Sonny's chest. But he was grinning when he did it, saying something to the nieces that made them giggle and the one touched his hair, and Sonny had to gulp his water just so he'd be doing something other than staring.

 

The cab ride back was quiet, but not the same kind of quiet that he'd gotten used to with Barba. It was a well-fed, contented quiet, not that that stopped him from glancing at Barba repeatedly. Just checking on him, Sonny told himself, watching the lights play across his face.

Barba had been dozing, Sonny realized when they reached the apartment building and he had to nudge him to wake him up. That was practically sleeping, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd been aware of Barba doing anything like that. The man flat-out didn't sleep, but then again the Carisi family could – and would – exhaust anyone.

 

"That wasn't so bad, huh?" Sonny asked, when they both sank onto the couch in the dark with the kind of noisy sighs of people who really shouldn't have had fourth helpings of everything. "Could've gone worse."

"Your family almost ate me alive towards the end," Barba said, kicking off his shoes. "You should be charged with pandering."

Sonny snickered, rubbing his stomach. He'd done all his apologizing earlier so he wouldn't have to now.

"But that was… Alright," Barba continued in a different tone of voice. Thoughtful. "Good. I haven't done that in a while."

"They're not so bad in small doses," Sonny said, dodging the looming thought of Barba alone or working, holiday after holiday, choosing instead to think fondly of his mother forcing tupperware containers full of leftovers on them, ignoring his objections.

"No, they're not," Barba agreed, looking at him, and Sonny must have had more to drink than he'd realized because he couldn't figure out how they'd gone from talking to kissing. Because they were, Barba leaning over him, mouth on his, and Sonny couldn't move.

Barba leaned back after a moment, eyebrows low, and whatever he saw in Sonny's face made him nod and look away, down at his hands. "Sorry, I shouldn't…" He pushed his sleeves up and pulled them back down almost as fast when his scarred forearms were revealed, as if Sonny needed the reminder. As if he wasn't constantly aware of how they'd ended up like _this_ , and how- How _alright_ it would be if that one little thing were different, or maybe if a bunch of little things about _Sonny_ were different, because as much as he wanted to tell Barba it was okay he could think of a dozen reasons it _wasn't_ okay, and "You're still fucked up" wasn't even the first one that sprang to mind, and didn't that say it all?

So he kept not saying anything even when Barba got up and went to the bedroom, door closing with a soft click.


	9. Barisi, the one with the huddling for warmth (Part One)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barba/Carisi. Briefly references another fic of mine, "Window Shopping," but reading that is not by any means required.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic gave me problems. A lot of problems. I've posted it across two chapters because the heart of the problem is that I don't think the climax (heh) matches the tone of the rest of the fic, but at this point I'm too frustrated by the whole thing to work on it anymore.

"Two rooms," Sonny said, trying not to drip on the counter.

The tired-looking older woman sitting behind it jerked her thumb at the corkboard and its lone key. "Only got one."

Back by the door, Barba let out an explosive series of sneezes.

"Does it at least have two beds?" Sonny had his fingers crossed but after the last few hours he wasn't holding his breath.

"Honeymoon suite," she said, looking as enthused as he felt.

"One bed?" he asked, needing her to drive home exactly how bad the day could still get.

"One bed," she confirmed. "But it's a queen." There was a crash of thunder loud enough to shake the building and set the loose pens rolling slowly across the counter.

He sighed and pulled out his wallet, shedding water all over the guestbook as he passed her his credit card.

 

It was supposed to be a short trip upstate to talk to a witness who'd decided to hide out with family in Nowheresville. It hadn't gone well, had only gotten worse when Barba had threatened to subpoena her – maybe that's what started their run of bad luck. Karma or something.

"Don't look at me like that," Barba had muttered as they'd walked back to the car.

"She's just scared," Sonny said, looking over his shoulder back at the house. There were people looking out the front door; probably wanted to be sure they really left.

"They're always scared," Barba said, pulling open the passenger side door. "I need her to testify. If she needs to be more scared of me than her employer to do it then that's fine by me."

Sonny was itching to call him heartless, but he also didn't want to spend hours in a car with a riled up Barba, so he went against his nature and dropped it.

 

Barba flicked on the light. "Wow."

This was the first time he'd really looked at Barba, and… Yeah, _wow_ was right. _Soaked_ didn't go far enough – the man was completely waterlogged. His shirt was translucent beneath the dark bands of his suspenders, white undershirt clearly visible and doing little for whatever modesty Barba possessed. Combined with sodden grey slacks that clung in all sorts of… Not _interesting_ ways, Sonny would never say it was _interesting_ how Barba's wet trousers cleaved to his thighs.

He'd never say that. Not out loud, anyway. Definitely not where anyone could hear him.

Barba turned, pushing at one of his shirt sleeves – the material was so wet that it wouldn't stay rolled up. "Can you believe this shit?"

Sonny blinked, realizing belatedly that he was talking about the room. "Yeah, it's…" He hadn't noticed how fuck ugly it was. Whoever decorated had either a sick sense of humor or an abiding love of red. "At least it's dry," he finally said, slicking back his wet hair casually, like he hadn't just been admiring how tight Barba's pants looked. Had they shrunk? Was that even possible?

Barba, oblivious, grunted and dropped his bag on an overstuffed floral chair, heading for the bathroom. He squelched when he walked.

Sonny sat down heavily on the creaky mattress and began to pick at the knot of his shoelaces, mood finally tanking. They'd spent all day together, he'd kept his overactive imagination in check, and it had been fine even when things had very rapidly gone to Hell in a handbasket. What was one night alone with Barba in a crummy motel? Sonny could handle it. He wouldn't embarrass himself like he had before.

"Didn't she say the bed was a queen?" Barba was standing in the doorway of the bathroom, pulling at his limp tie, and Sonny didn't know where to look. There was nowhere for him _to_ look, nowhere that didn't result in the almost overwhelming desire to drop to his knees, push his face to Barba's crotch and mouth his cock through his pants, find out what rain-soaked wool tasted like.

"That look like a queen to you?" Barba jerked his chin at the bed, derailing Sonny's incredibly vivid train of thought.

He turned, eyeing the bed. "Twin, maybe. Or a very small double." Sonny hadn't slept in a bed this small since he still lived with his parents. He bounced once where he sat – just as loud as his old bed. Jerking off in it had been a nightmare; he'd always been convinced everyone in the house could hear the springs creaking…

Sonny needed to stop thinking about jerking off _right now_.

Barba clucked his tongue in disapproval, as if he could hear his thoughts. "Perfect," he muttered, disappearing back into the bathroom.

 

Turned out they weren't in the car for very long. Less than an hour. Long enough to reach town limits, get lost, and get a flat tire.

"Anything?" Barba called from where he was crouched beside the car, spinning the lug wrench.

Sonny shook his head, holding both cellphones up in the air and turning slowly around in a circle in the grass field next to the road. He felt like a human antenna. "Nothing. Not a bar."

"That's great." There was a jangle as the wrench hit the ground, and Barba reappeared holding the flat, dropping it in the trunk.

Shit like this was why Sonny liked the subway, but he had to admit it was kind of impressive seeing Barba change a tire so easily. "Need a hand?"

Barba waved him off, rolling the spare along the road, but whatever he said was lost in a sudden boom of thunder that made them both jump. The sky, once clear, had clouded over quickly without their noticing, and now a solid sheet of threatening grey hung above them. It was the same shade as Barba's suit.

They had two seconds to stare at each other before the rain started to pour down in buckets.

 

Shirt, socks, and shoes removed, gun and holster in the dresser drawer, Sonny blindly flipped through staticky channels, waiting for his turn in the shower and failing utterly at not thinking about how Barba was naked in the next room. Naked and touching himself, skin all pink under steaming water, lathering his body up with cheap motel soap, and it had been such a long, stressful day that a quick jerk probably seemed like a no-brainer. Practically restorative. Hell, Sonny himself was planning on doing the same thing once it was his turn.

The thunder rolled again, making the walls shake; there was another boom – just as loud, but of a different quality. Strangely muffled.

And then Barba started screaming.

Fantasy evaporating in an instant, Sonny was on his feet and through the bathroom door before he knew it, almost tripping over the wet pile of clothes on the floor. "You alright?"

"Fucking- Damn it!" The shower curtain moved violently and the water shut off, then Barba's wet face poked around the curtain. His hair was plastered once more to his head, and rivulets of water were running down the line of his neck, over his shoulders. "Pass me a towel."

Sonny did so before trying the taps at the sink. "There's no hot water," he said. So much for _his_ shower.

"Yeah, thanks, I noticed," Barba said, jerking back the curtain and stepping out, one hand at the towel around his hips. Sonny got a glimpse of hard nipples, dark hair and a lot of extremely pale skin before he turned away, back to the mirror over the sink. It was barely fogged; had the water even been hot? He could feel the chill emanating from the tub.

"You m-m-mind?" Barba's teeth were chattering as he stared at Sonny, expression impatient even as his eyes flicked over his bare chest. His wet hair gleamed strangely under the fluorescent light – was that gray? Was Barba going gray? Sonny's fingers itched to snatch his towel away, push him up against the bathroom wall and find out if he was graying anywhere else.

"Right, sorry," Sonny muttered, flushing, stepping over his clothes and shutting the door behind him. He stared at the bed with its awful red pleated comforter, taking a deep breath. It looked like something Scarlett O'Hara would make a dress out of, and it did nothing to make the bed look any bigger.

The banging at the front door startled him out of wondering how exactly they'd both fit on the bed, and when he pulled open the door it was to the woman from the front desk, now in a yellow raincoat. The _lying_ woman from the front desk.

"No hot water," she said. At least she didn't waste time.

"We know," he said. "Found out the hard way. Any chance-"

"Hot water tank exploded," she interrupted. "Sorry about the trouble. I'll credit your room with a free continental breakfast."

Sonny started to laugh. A cold shower hadn't improved Barba's mood but it would probably do Sonny a world of good.

 

They were both thoroughly soaked by the time they got the spare on, which they'd managed at a speed that would impress a NASCAR pit crew. Not that it mattered, because ten minutes later another tire blew out.

"The fuck is this road made out of, nails? Is that why no one else is on it? Are we the only ones who didn't know?"

Barba wiped a wet hand over his wet face, water dripping off the end of his nose as he sat miserable in shotgun. "Phone's dead," he said, holding it up to show Sonny the unlit screen.

Sonny nodded, resisting the urge to rub the streak of dirt off Barba's cheek. "Sounds about right." His own phone sat useless in the cupholder, the telltale lines of NO SERVICE probably burned into the screen. "I don't have another spare."

Barba warmed his hands over the heat vent in the dash and gazed out the windshield, watching the wipers move. Not that they did much good – the rain was coming down too hard to see anything. It was eerie, like they were underwater. "I saw a motel a couple of miles back."

"You know, they always say to stay in the car in situations like this," Sonny pointed out.

"We've got no signal, no food, no idea when this is going to let up, and we're going to have to leave the car eventually anyways just to get a tow," Barba said, rattling off the facts and painting a grim picture. Typical. "I don't know about you but I'd rather sit this out somewhere dry. Besides, a little rain never killed anyone."

"Famous last words," Sonny said.

 

Sonny'd never realized how much clothing Barba really wore on a daily basis until he stood in the bathroom and looked at it all. Of course, he himself wore an equal amount, but it seemed like so much more for the other man. Probably because Sonny was constantly imagining him without any of it.

Their shirts and undershirts were drip-drying on hangers, and the rest of it – pants, socks, neckties and underwear – were draped over the chipped dove grey porcelain tub. Everything was wrinkled, everything was soaked, they were never going to be dry again, life was terrible.

Sonny flicked one of the loose straps of Barba's suspenders, slung over the shower curtain rod, watched the buckle glint and twist, and shook his head before he retied the belt of his bathrobe and padded barefoot back into the room.

Barba, in his own cheap robe, was standing at the small table to the left of the door, bent over the small one-cup coffeemaker, when suddenly there was… Nothing.

Sonny blinked in the darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust. "Huh."

With the hum of electricity absent, every other noise suddenly seemed a lot louder. The rain pounding on the roof, against the window; the faint whistle of Barba's breathing, his chattering teeth; Sonny's own soft breaths. Sonny shivered and tugged at the cuffs of his robe, wishing the sleeves were about four inches longer. There was a draft in the room, stirring the curtain.

Somewhere before him, Barba sighed. And sneezed.

 

By unspoken agreement they ended up sitting shoulder to trembling shoulder on the bed, each holding a single-serving bottle of overpriced liquor, listening to the storm. With the TV out of commission the only thing to watch was the rain banding down the window; Sonny had pulled back the curtain a bit but there wasn't any real light to be had. That was about the only thing the room was good for – a stocked mini fridge that no longer worked, a roof that didn't leak, and a view of nothing.

He'd figured out what was bothering him so much. "No traffic," Sonny said, sipping his vodka.

"W-weird," Barba agreed. His shivering had only grown more pronounced; neither of them had commented on it when Barba had swaddled himself in the thin comforter. In the dark it wasn't so garish. "F-flip for the b-bed?"

Sonny grimaced. "Don't bother, you can take it. I won't fit anyway."

"Y-y-you're going to sleep on the _f-f-floor_?" Barba said it with such disgust that Sonny couldn't help but laugh. It had been an idea more necessary than appealing, but now it just seemed funny. And sad.

"Can't sleep in the tub," he said. "Occupied."

Barba snorted, draining the last of his scotch. He chucked the bottle in the direction of the dustbin – the rattle was loud but it was too dark to see if it had gone in or not – and reached for something else from their open bar, using Sonny's phone as a makeshift flashlight.

There was a familiar banging at the front door, and Sonny heaved himself up to answer it as Barba fought with a bag of peanuts.

The lying woman had found a giant flashlight and a yellow rain hat to go with her coat.

"No electricity," they said at the same time, and she squinted at him.

"Tree fell on a line." There was a sudden clattering behind him, and he had to shield his eyes when she lifted the flashlight. Whatever she saw in the room made her eyebrows jump. "Sorry about the trouble. Feel free to keep helping yourselves to the minibar, I'll-"

"Credit our room, yeah, thanks," Sonny said, and closed the door, not caring that he was being rude. _A_ _queen_. Fuck her.

He stepped on one of the nuts Barba had scattered over the carpet.

 

It didn't take them long to empty the fridge, and soon enough Sonny was yawning, dreading spending a night on the hard floor. There was a flash of lightning beyond the curtains, and he waited, counting in his head. "What is it? Number of seconds divided by five?"

"S-s-something like that," Barba said, shifting beside him. His shivers had turned to full-blown shaking, and his hands looked preternaturally white in the dark as he rubbed them together. He wasn't giving off any heat at all.

Sonny felt a surge of concern, and he touched Barba's shoulder, the polyester fabric of the comforter cold under his fingers. "You alright?"

Barba rubbed his hands even faster before blowing on them. "Peachy."

The temperature in the room had already dropped a handful of degrees since the heat had shut off; their clothes wouldn't be dry until tomorrow; there was one bed, one comforter, and two pillows. And Barba appeared to be freezing to death.

This wasn't what Sonny had in mind when he'd become a cop, but protecting and serving didn't always mean footchases and shootouts. He wasn't doing this for his own benefit, he told himself, almost believing it.

"Lie down," he said, nudging his shoulder.

"W-what?" He heard the crinkle of the comforter when Barba turned towards him.

He nudged him again. "You're freezing, you need to warm up."

There was a heavy pause as Barba worked out what he meant. "N-no w-w-way," he said, getting to his feet. "I-I'll sleep on the floor, you c-can have the bed."

Sonny grabbed his wrist, dragging him back down to the bed. "C'mon, you're freezing and Benson'll kill me if I let you catch your death or whatever out here in the boonies."

Barba barked a laugh, jerking his wrist from Sonny's grip and rubbing his arms. "I-I'm not l-l-l-letting you sp-sp-spoon me. I'll be f-f-fine."

"Man, you just spelled 'letting' with like, five ls," Sonny replied. "You made my case for me. Don't make this any weirder than it has to be." He could feel Barba glaring at him but, while he didn't say anything in turn, he didn't move away either. Sonny rolled his eyes, trying to ignore the butterflies in his stomach. "Look, if you're worried I won't keep my hands to myself-"

Apparently that was the closest Barba would let him get to referencing the night they'd both agreed to forget, because he stood up again. "M-move."

Sonny sighed, disappointed, but it wasn't like he would _force_ him to-

"Y-you're s-s-sitting in the middle of the b-bed," Barba said.

"Oh. Right."

 

It was a tight fit, to say the least. Didn't help that the bed was so fucking small, but after a lot of grumbling and accidental jabbing of elbows into softer parts, they were… Still incredibly uncomfortable.

"This bed," Sonny muttered, shifting behind Barba, trying to find a spare inch of space where a spring wouldn't be stabbing him in the hip. "This bed is fucking awful."

Barba grunted, squirming, and-

"Holy shit, are those your feet?" Sonny yelped, flinching. The giant blocks of ice Barba pretended were feet slid against Sonny's shins.

"This w-w-was your idea," Barba said, curling in on himself.

Sonny frowned. In the dark, with all the awkward nuisance of trying to cram two grown men onto one twin bed, he honestly couldn't find it in himself to be keyed up. Yes, he was deliberately sharing a bed with Barba, and no, neither of them were wearing anything more than the world's scratchiest bathrobes, but it was terrible and Barba was a popsicle. Nothing attractive about a guy who couldn't manage a two-word sentence without stuttering. Nothing hot about it.

Not a thing.

 

"Any better?"

Barba shrugged, but his shaking had eased up about as much as the storm had – which was to say not at all. The rain still pelted the window, and Barba was still frozen in Sonny's arms, and the silence couldn't have been more awkward. He was going to end up working traffic for the rest of his life after he let Barba die of hypothermia or whatever, and he'd spend his days writing tickets and thinking about how _this_ was what it was like to hold him. Wonderful.

A series of shivers rippled through Barba and, instinctively, Sonny rubbed his palm against Barba's chest where his robe had fallen open. Thinking solely of friction, and whether pure body-to-body contact was best like he'd always heard, and not at all about how Barba's bare skin felt under his hand.

A deep breath that he couldn't help but feel, and Sonny froze, mortified, as Barba seemed to make a concentrated effort to relax. "It's fine," he murmured, shifting his head on the pillow, hair soft and tickling against Sonny's throat, trembling very slightly.


	10. Barisi, the one with the huddling for warmth sex (Part Two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barba/Carisi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't read if daddy kink isn't your bag, there's some of that here. You'll see what I mean about tone not matching up. Maybe I'll cannibalize this for the future (doubt it). The ending is dumb.

Sonny woke up _hot_. Boiling alive, _surface of the sun_ hot. Sweating like a maniac, sunlight red against the insides of his eyelids, he shifted, comforter dragging down off his shoulder, but the shock of cold air ran second to the feel of someone else's slick skin sliding against his own. Legs tangled up and… _Bodies_ pressed together, and hadn't he been wearing something when he went to bed?

Hadn't _Barba_ been wearing… And that was the moment when Sonny decided he had to be dreaming, because there was no way any of this was happening. He was _not_ cuddling – more than cuddling, really, they had their arms around each other, _this was way more than cuddling_ – his sort-of superior who was definitely straight, and they were _not_ naked, and that was _not_ Barba's face pressed against his neck. Sonny didn't even bother opening his eyes. If his brain wanted to torture him some more, so what? He was used to it by now.

But it was the most realistic dream yet, full of tiny details he would never have noticed if he hadn't been looking for them. Details like Barba's hot breath on his throat, and the musky smell of him, and how his hairy thigh felt against Sonny's dick, and he couldn't help sighing and nestling in closer. As if that was even possible in such a depressingly small bed; how had Barba found it possible to turn over? And without shoving Sonny to the floor? Score another point for the dream world.

So, the guilt was at a minimum when he rocked against Barba, hand skating down his back to cup his ass, his other arm wrapping around his shoulders. Nothing Sonny did mattered in a dream, right? Right.

"Should've figured you for handsy," Barba grumbled, sounding torn between cranky and amused, and yeah, that made sense. He'd never had Barba down as a morning person, couldn't imagine him being anything like soft or happy to be alive before three cups of coffee and a shower that wasn't ice cold.

Sonny smiled and still didn't open his eyes, drunk from the heat Barba was throwing off. Because that had to be where it was all coming from: the man was volcanic, and Sonny hissed when Barba's hand slipped from his waist to shove between their bodies, wrap around his cock and give him a lazy tug.

Sonny allowed himself one squeeze of that ass he so admired. Just one, because even in a dream he wasn't greedy. He'd been raised better than that. "'S'not like this is really happening," he slurred, half-awake and stupid with it.

The silence was thicker than the hotel comforter, but Sonny wasn't bothered. Not when Barba's hand was languid and perfect for first thing in the morning. Too perfect. "No, you're right, it isn't," Barba said finally, sealing the deal. Barba admitting he, Sonny Carisi, was right about _anything?_ Sonny should be so lucky, but having Barba move against him, grip his hip and gasp softly at the same time he did when their cocks rubbed together? Way better than being right. God, the fucking _injustice_ of this, that it wasn't real _._

"This isn't happening," Barba said again, and Sonny had no choice but to believe him. The alternative was living in a world where Barba's hand could – or would – palm their cocks, push them together and that was new. Sonny'd never thought of _that_ before, but he had no objections to how Barba's precome-covered palm smoothed over their cockheads, squeezed them together, and it was almost too much. Too sticky, too hot, too _good_ , and Sonny slid his hands up and down Barba's back compulsively, but there were no sharp edges for him to grab onto.

"It'll never happen again, understand?" Barba's free hand splayed over Sonny's shoulder blade as he panted, a sound so close it could've come from Sonny himself. His grip settled tight as it glided down their shafts, but even that didn't stop Sonny from letting out a laugh, though it ended in a groan.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," he said, rolling his hips. "'Cause you don't- Shit- You don't fuck your coworkers, right?"

"Don't get smart," Barba said, voice rougher than usual, and his hand started to move the slightest bit faster, knuckles dragging against Sonny's belly, and Sonny couldn't say what it was exactly that made him push his face into the pillow, inhale the swamp-damp smells of sweat and cheap detergent.

"S-sorry, sir," Sonny mumbled into the pillow, flushing hot at the reprimand, and yeah, it was that, he could admit that much to himself. The casual bossiness, the easy dismissal, and Sonny wished he knew when that had become such a big crank his brain didn't hesitate to turn at the first opportunity.

But Barba just snorted, hand never slowing, and Sonny wondered why this had never occurred to him before because the slippery underside of Barba's dick rubbing up against his own was better than good, it was great.

And the _sounds_ , Christ – their rough breathing, the unmistakeable sound of flesh moving against flesh, their bodies never still on sweat-soaked sheets, and, underscoring it all, the neverending creaking of the mattress springs. Loud and ceaseless and so familiar that it was like Sonny was fifteen again, alone in the house for a change, and he wondered what he'd see if he opened his eyes. Laundry on the floor, posters on the walls? Dreams could be weird but he had no desire to find out because _this_ was more than enough, and there was no reason at all for Barba to ask him, "Is that- Do you-"

Sonny'd never heard that note of hesitance in his voice before but it didn't stop him from answering, enthusiastic as ever, "I like it, you know I like it, Daddy."

There was a stutter to Barba's stroke. "Jesus." His grip resettled further up, thumb rubbing arrhythmically over the tips, pinched together and leaking. "You can't tell anyone about- About this, alright?"

Eyes shut tight, it was all Sonny could do to grab at Barba's shoulders and hang on, shaking his head, and even with the comforter and top sheet kicked somewhere down to the bottom of the bed the heat was killing him. The heat, and Barba's hand, and the _creak creak creak_ of the bed, and-

" _Sonny_. You can't-"

"I won't," Sonny moaned, leaning forward blindly to press his face to Barba's hair, nuzzling him. "I won't, I promise I won't, I'll be good, whatever you say-" He bit his lip to put a stop to his cracked babbling, but whatever he said wasn't the right thing or maybe he just wasn't fast enough because Barba let his cock go and pushed him back, sticky hand low on his belly. Not very far at all, the bed was too small and they were too tangled up together, but Barba made his point.

"You'll be good?" Barba's eyes fixed on his face, and Sonny was shaking, staring back at him, drinking in the sight of his mussed hair and flushed skin, shiny from their exertions, and then Barba's hand was back on his cock, and he couldn't pretend this was a dream anymore.

"I'll be good, Daddy, I promise I'll be a good boy," he choked out, shoving desperately into Barba's loose grip, short fingernails scraping over his ribs, and Sonny was willing to try coming just from that if Barba hadn't caught him unawares with a series of fast and hard pumps of his cock that had him spurting over Barba's fist and groaning shamelessly.

Normally Sonny would've woken up at this point, but instead he just laid there and panted, watching blankly as Barba, inches away, jerked himself off. Holy Mother Mary only knew how many times Sonny had imagined or dreamed of this exact situation, but now that it was happening he felt… Nothing. Hot. And distracted by the beads of sweat rolling down Barba's neck, the way the morning light glinted off his damp hair like he was soaked all over again, and yeah, he was definitely going gray.

" _Fuck_ ," Barba muttered before his mouth dropped open slightly and he stiffened, coming silently but for deep sucking breaths like he was drowning.

And to think Sonny had convinced himself he'd been dreaming. His imagination would never have been so good as to paint freckles over Barba's nose or rendered the worst bed on the entire planet of Earth one big wet spot or left Barba the one covered with come.

Sonny couldn't believe his luck. What were the odds the water heater had been fixed? Watching Barba smear a hand over his belly and roll onto his back only to almost fall off the bed, Sonny had to figure the odds were slim to none. That's not how it worked for them.

"Thanks," Barba said when Sonny pulled him back onto the mattress proper. Not that there was much of it, nor that what there was was comfortable, and he grabbed the top sheet from where it lay bunched on the floor at the foot of the bed and passed it to Barba so he could wipe himself off.

"You think this is the first time these sheets have seen this kind of action?" Sonny, seated at the end of the bed, felt the need to point out the obvious when he saw Barba hesitate. "This _is_ the honeymoon suite after all."

Apparently sex slowed Barba's normally rapid-fire thinking down a bit because his disgust was slow to manifest, but when it did it was picture perfect. "Oh God," he said, cringing as he quickly wiped the come off his body. "No wonder you wanted to sleep on the floor, it's probably cleaner than this bed."

"Glad I didn't though," Sonny said, and he could've smacked himself. _This isn't happening, it'll never happen again, don't tell anyone_. Barba had made it pretty clear what he thought of the whole… Whatever it was that had just happened. Freak accident? Cuddling gone wrong? He couldn't even ask for clarification because it wasn't to be discussed, which he was fine with in theory when applied to certain very specific things that _he_ , Dominick Carisi, Jr., may or may not have said in the heat of… _Whatever_. Certain very specific and very _embarrassing_ things, and he could feel his ears burning. The only part of him that hadn't gotten hot.

Barba, in the periphery, slowly looked over at him from the top of the bed. It was not a very large distance. "Hm."


	11. Barisi, the one that's just blatant slash PWP

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barba/Carisi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jenny called this "therapeutic buttstuff." It's short, it's plotless, it's dudeslash at its most basic, and it's the last unfinished fic I have to post. Enjoy.

"Carisi, if you come all over my paperwork, so help you God…"

Sonny rolled his eyes, breathing hard through his nose. "It would be your fucking- _Fuck_ ," he gasped, rocked forward by Barba's thrusts, crumpling a hopefully unimportant piece of paper in his hand as he braced himself against the messy desktop.

"Were you-" Barba dropped his forehead to rest against Sonny's shoulder, but he didn't show any other signs of easing up. His hand, at least, moved as steady as ever over Sonny's cock. "Were you going to say it would be _my_ fault?" he asked.

"Yeah, yeah, that's exactly- _Yes_ ," he said, staring down at a half-empty mug directly below him, watching the coffee slosh from side to side, wondering if Barba would blame him if it spilled.

"Whatever happened to-" Barba wrapped his arm around Sonny's chest, clutching him closer as he shoved against him, fingers twisting wrinkles into his shirt "-Personal responsibility?"

Sonny groaned a laugh and closed his eyes. "Fuck your personal responsibility," he hissed, pushing back against him, cock moving smoothly in his slick grip. "You give me a reacharound, you don't get to complain about the results."

"Good point." Barba released his cock, lube-sticky hand moving instead to slide up over his stomach, under his shirtfront.

"Oh my God, fuck you," Sonny moaned.

Then Barba shifted against him, arm rising momentarily, bare forearm pressing against Sonny's throat only to drop, and it took him a second to figure out what happened. "Did- Did you just check your fucking watch?" He briefly considered knocking the coffee cup over on principle.

Only briefly because Barba started moving a lot more purposefully, pounding into him harder, and God, it was good, it had been good before but now it was _good,_ but _still-_

"You son of a bitch, you _did_ , you- _Jesus._ " Sonny shoved back to meet him.

"I have a meeting in ten minutes," Barba whispered into his ear, and for fuck's actual sake that shouldn't have pushed Sonny over the edge but it did, and he closed his eyes as he came, partly so he wouldn't see the result.

" _Damnit_ ," Barba groaned, the sound muffled when he pushed his face against Sonny's shoulder once more as he went rigid behind him. After a long moment where the only sound was their ragged breathing, Barba's clinging grip relaxed. "Tell me you didn't get come all over my affidavit. Lie to me if you have to."

Sonny cracked open one eyelid and bit his lip at the sight. "I… Totally did not get come all over your affidavit."

Barba's groan sounded very different from the earlier ones.


End file.
